


Sobranie

by immistermercury



Series: Jim and Fred in NYC [5]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: (but it doesn't happen because our boy is smart), Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Anal Sex, First Meetings, Internalized Homophobia, London Fashion Week, M/M, New York Fashion Week, Period-Typical Homophobia, Recreational Drug Use, different Jim though, freddie is a model, gratuitous mentions of cigarettes, he's also rich and a playboy, here you go, jim is a photographer, jim shoots for vogue, mentions of attempted sexual assault, protective roger, quite a lot of references to sex, same freddie as farsi!verse, shy and sweet freddie, you guys wanted more freddie learning english
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-19 09:47:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22009012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/immistermercury/pseuds/immistermercury
Summary: It paid to be good at photography; the houses got bigger, the women got bolder, and he could have anything he wanted. It had been fine when he was twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five. No one had questioned a young man with his arm around a different model each day, lascivious kisses with no real passion behind them, promiscuous and proud. At twenty-six, the slapping on the back had stopped; at twenty-seven, he’d started to receive nervous enquiries about wives and girlfriends back home; and at twenty-eight, he’d started to hear rumours behind his back.I wonder if he’s a fag?
Relationships: Jim Hutton/Freddie Mercury, Mary Austin/Freddie Mercury
Series: Jim and Fred in NYC [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2168016
Comments: 64
Kudos: 66





	1. Glances

**Author's Note:**

> I've had writer's block and I'm finally out of it and I won't lie kids I am so happy with how this came out! I'm really excited to write famous/notorious/infamous Jim.

PART ONE

The camera was heavy in his hand; he’d been in Dubai for a month, shooting on an old, quaint little film camera, moving back and forth to zoom and crouching low to hit all the prescribed angles. He’d been something of a toy to them, the funny little Irishman whose cheek they’d pinched and drinks they’d patronised, until he conspicuously flashed open his wallet in front of them - then he’d drank to their amazed silence. He was back to his familiar camera, now, his new, fancy digital one, the little powerhouse in his hands; it was comforting to be back here, to be back in London, to be taking pictures of the ceiling of Vogue House in Mayfair to adjust the white balance of his camera. 

“It’s nice to have you back.” Naomi tapped him on the nose as she sat beside him, crossing one leg over the other. Like every other woman in this building, she was glamorous, immaculate, bleached and trimmed and made up and lipsticked, scarlet and sweet ivory; she smelled of lilies and he could’ve sworn that she left a trail of powder behind her wherever she went. “How was it?”

“Debauchery.” Jim replied, keeping his voice low and bored, and then burst out laughing when she elbowed him. “I’m kidding. It was good, it was too fucking hot, it’s nice to be back where they make tea properly.”

“I’ll make an Englishman out of you yet.” She kissed his cheek; he was always surprised when his skin came back clean instead of painted cherry red. “Meet any women?”

“You’re as bad as my mother, I swear. Couple of dates, nothing serious.” He shot a quick picture of her, pulled a face of disgust, and adjusted his ISO.

“I don’t mean it like that, darling!” She said quickly. “It’s just- your wallet isn’t getting any smaller, and your house is so lovely, you’ve got so much room for a wife and a couple of little ones. You’re not getting any younger.”

“Darling, I’m twenty-eight.” He replied with an eye-roll. “I’m hardly an unmarried bachelor of fifty, am I? Don’t you worry your pretty little head about me.”

As always, she fluffed up at the compliment; as a model without a contract, she always appreciated being referred to as ‘pretty’, even if it came with Jim’s dose of sarcasm. “I do wish you’d let me introduce you to Betty.” She sighed and rested a hand on his thigh. “I’m sure she’d be just your type! She’s so witty, she’s just like you, and she’s beautiful. She’s got these amazing curves, and she’s got gorgeous dark curls and dark eyes, and this- this fantastic exotic skin.”

Jim winced a little inside at her use of ‘exotic’ - the modelling made anyone who wasn’t six foot, rake thin, and blonde into the vague ‘exotic’ archetype that was used when somebody was a little _out of line -_ but he elected to say nothing. Most of the women he’d been with were models: it was the nature of the job. He spent so long photographing, editing, perfecting with one photo layered on top of another, hours in a dark room, squinting through a loupe, age-old fingers applying age-old techniques to be swapped for another briefcase of cash.

It paid to be good at the art; the houses got bigger, the women got bolder, and he could have anything he wanted. It had been fine when he was twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five. No one had questioned a young man with his arm around a different model each day, lascivious kisses with no real passion behind them, promiscuous and proud. At twenty-six, the slapping on the back had stopped; at twenty-seven, he’d started to receive nervous enquiries about wives and girlfriends back home; and at twenty-eight, he’d started to hear rumours behind his back.

_I wonder if he’s a fag?_

“Honestly, darling, I’m fine.” He took a cigarette from the packet in his pocket and gratefully accepted her lighter. 

“You know, sometimes I swear you could be a model, what with the amount you smoke. Every model I know has a pack of Marlboro reds in her back pocket.” She chuckled.

“Christ, Mi. First I don’t have a girlfriend, now I smoke too much.” He arched an eyebrow and took a drag. “Do you know what this assignment is?”

“I know you’ve been in Dubai, but can you not work it out?” She shot back, lighting her own cigarette with a smug smile. “What’s the date next week?”

Jim faltered for a moment as he ashed his cigarette in the elegant crystal ashtray between them. “It’s the fourteenth of February on Friday.” He replied blankly, wracking his brains for the importance of the date - fashion weeks always seemed to start on a Friday, and so it seemed the logical place to begin - and then he stopped. “London Fashion Week.”

“You got it!” She clapped her hands, playfully patronising, and he gave her the finger with a chuckle. “Catheryne wants you on Dolce and Gabbana and Gucci on the Saturday, and Prada on the Sunday.”

He whistled, but he couldn’t deny he was impressed; his reputation was doing him favours. Shots for the big brands were more likely to make it into the magazine, more likely to be sold to Cosmopolitan and Blitz and Fashion and Harper’s Bazaar if he got the right shot at the right angle. The most money was always with Vogue - that was why he shined his shoes and bleached his teeth of morning coffee stains before he came into the office, and always made sure to have a packet of Sobranies in his back pocket as a gift for Catheryne - but he wasn’t stupid enough to cut his nose off to spite his face.

“One hell of a line-up.” He grinned despite himself.

“You’re focusing on menswear this time, I think. You’ll have to check.” She shrugged. “Makes a change.”

He felt a little more disheartened by that; he’d received many of his best blowjobs backstage at Fashion Week with the gift of the shot that could change a model’s career. This meant he’d have to work harder, maybe sneak into catwalks he wasn’t technically supposed to shoot with a flash of the killer smile, to get one of the girls, but he reasoned it would be worth it in the end.

* * *

The crowd were bored, and he couldn’t blame them; he’d watched the first four shows with little interest and less inspiration to create a good photo - if it wasn’t his brief, he wasn’t about to induce a headache by working too hard. He was setting his camera up for the start of the D&G run, idly tapping his fingers to the heavy bass that was playing somewhere in the background and kicking the multitude of photographers out of the way that tried to sit in the seat in front of him. He didn’t care if it was ruthless - _he had ‘Vogue’ written on the back of his jacket, for Christ’s sake, he wasn’t being shy about who he was or what he wanted._

His head jerked up when they started, the air of the room turning electric immediately, and his breath caught in his throat with the adrenaline, knowing that it was coming, this could be another car if he did it well enough-

He was a little disappointed by the first few lines, pinstripe suits with patterned shirts, clashes that would work well in different lights but not the harsh, almost clinical light of this shot. It was all a little predictable, the reason why menswear photos never sold as well. He took a few half-hearted shots, knowing that he’d discard them as soon as he looked them over, and then his interest piqued.

Jim wasn’t sure he’d ever seen a truly gorgeous boy before.

But this boy, he was- he was something special, Jim was sure, and his camera was clicking furiously before his brain had caught up to his fingers. The other photographers, seeing his interest, starting snapping with a cacophony of flash, but Jim was sure that none of them had seen what he’d seen the minute he walked out.

His skin was bronze, as far as Jim could see under the heavy coat he was wearing, his hair fell in soft black curls, barely touched - he wasn’t airbrushed and made up like all the other models, but so honest, so natural. He had freckles on his cheeks, and the most beautiful dark eyes, offset by scarlet lips that drew unholy emphasis to their fullness.

He opened his coat, and he was wearing little else underneath except a pair of black boyshorts to maintain his modesty; his skin seemed to melt into the red velvet lining, and Jim clicked a few more photos while the flashes rolled over them in waves, drowning them both.

Their eyes met, and Jim was sure in that second that he had a photo that no one else in that room had captured - as he stepped out, he wore a look of awe that had quickly settled into a sophisticated pout, designed to emphasise the hollows of his cheeks. Jim wanted to bottle that feeling of awe, feeling of wonder, and sell it like a perfume.

He’d settle for selling the photo, but he had to know the man behind it.

* * *

Freddie lounged on one of the sofas backstage, laughing with one of the models he’d met; he sat with both feet tucked beneath him, legs bare, wrapped in a black satin gown. Elegantly manicured fingers tapped his mug idly, waiting for his coffee to cool as he watched the hustle around them, make-up artists and hairstylists and runners with anything from laxatives to socks. “It’s- how do you say? Crazy, in here.” He chuckled. “Never like this in India.”

“It’s a big thing.” Roger chuckled, stealing a sip of his coffee. “Christ, they never let me drink coffee before a walk, I’ve been nil-by-mouth since five o’clock yesterday evening. I can’t wait until dinner.”

Freddie shot him a look of confusion and offered his mug again, assuming he’d done something wrong. “Oh no, don’t worry.” Roger said quickly. “I’ll live.”

He clocked Jim Hutton - _the_ Jim Hutton, he reminded himself, as his heart quickened a little - walking over to them, long before Freddie did; Freddie was far too interested in a model with a zip stuck in her hair to note yet another man with artfully controlled stubble and carefully cropped hair. He didn’t know if he immediately wanted to protect Freddie because of the guy’s reputation - he’d fucked practically anything that moved at the last five fashion weeks - or because he wanted to be the one to make a favourable impression on the photographer that could change his career entirely.

Jim produced the Sobranie pack and flicked it open with his thumbnail, holding it out to Freddie. He wasn’t the biggest fan of the cigarettes, preferring simple Marlboro Reds himself, but there was something about them that spoke to his status; he could have anything imported that he liked, and could afford to hand them around as though he’d bought them at Sainsbury’s on the way in. “Jim Hutton.” He offered by way of a greeting, assuming his name would speak for itself.

Freddie had retained just about enough sense to work out that it was his name - he’d never met a person before who went straight to cigarettes without even a ‘hello’, and it confused him all the more as he looked between him and the packet. He wasn’t impressed in the slightest by the name or the cigarettes - he’d seen Sobranie smoked backstage at almost every walk he’d done in India, and he had never heard of the infamous Vogue photographer before. “Freddie Bulsara.” He smiled awkwardly.

Jim looked over when Roger pushed the cigarette packet away and stood up, taking Freddie’s hand to pull him along after him. “Freddie doesn’t smoke.” He announced, wrapping an arm around his shoulders when he stood up beside him.

Freddie looked back at him as Roger pulled him away, unsure as to why he’d taken such a dislike to the Irishman - he seemed nice enough, if a little curt. And it was a lie - Freddie smoked as much as the next man - but it seemed wrong to interrupt him to say that. He simply didn’t know the etiquette behind taking someone else’s cigarette in London.

Jim met his eyes again, and settled for a shrug and a wink as he put the cigarettes back in his jacket pocket.

Freddie wasn’t quite sure why he was blushing.


	2. Insecurities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They both learn something about themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, being motivated to make content? It's more likely than you think!

“Oh, darling-” Jim laughed as another model - he hadn’t even bothered to get her name this time, nicknaming her _blondie_ as he had with a thousand other girls in his time - trailed kisses down his neck and over his collarbones. He tipped his head back and groaned a little as she bit so deliciously, so gently, over a bruise already blossomed, letting his eyes close momentarily. “This is a lovely thank you.”

She crossed her ankles gracefully, sat sideways in his lap, and wrapped her arms around his neck. She smiled wickedly when he gripped her hip, pulling her into him, the sharp points of her body fitting into the contours of his own so well. He could fall in love with this girl, he mused, if he worked awfully hard. “This is nothing.” She whispered sensually, biting her lip to tease as she brushed her fingers through his hair. “You could be a model yourself, you know.”

He leaned in and licked the curve of her ear, biting gently at her earlobe when she shivered. “I like eating-” He paused deliberately, smirking. “Far too much for that, sweetheart.” He muttered seductively, grinning mischievously when she gripped onto the shirt he was wearing.

Freddie walked into the room, unashamed in a little cotton thong - he was halfway through dressing, and he’d left Roger in charge of his coffee, and caffeine mattered more to him than the stares of anyone else in the communal area. He sat next to him, propped his bare feet up on the coffee table, and then arched an eyebrow. “Is he like that?” He asked, perhaps a little too loud.

Roger threw a dressing gown over his lap, rolling his eyes. “You can’t walk around practically fucking naked.” He replied, ignoring his question and trying to take the interest away from them.

Freddie took his cup and took a few mouthfuls, gratefully taking a cigarette when Brian leaned over the back of the sofa to offer them both one. Freddie shot him a little questioning glance when he sat on the arm of their sofa. “Most people usually wear more clothes, Fred.” He chuckled, rephrasing Roger’s rather callous statement.

Freddie glanced down at himself and frowned. “What’s wrong with me?” He asked defensively. “Is it my- my-” He stammered, his cheeks colouring, and gestured angrily at his waist. Throughout his whole career, he’d been told he was a pain to dress, his waist too narrow and his hips just an inch too wide, no matter how well he’d controlled what he ate and tried to bulk his core a little - after having his teeth fixed, it was the only insecurity he had left.

Jim pushed the model off his lap, earning himself an indignant squeak on her behalf, and walked over to the group - he was resolute to try again, attracted viscerally like a dog to a bone, instantaneous pleasure whenever he got a glimpse of his body. “You look beautiful, darling.” He said earnestly, eyeing the cigarette between his fingers, burned almost halfway down without so much as a single drag taken.

Freddie’s cheeks coloured with delight and he sent an immediate glance to Roger, maybe a little competitive; he seemed to comment endlessly on what he wore, what he drank, what he ate - he thought he’d never hear the end of eating breakfast that morning - and so to be the photographer’s favourite had to be proof he was doing something right. “Thank you.” He smiled gratefully, ashing his cigarette over the arm of the sofa and then taking a drag.

Jim took a business card from his pocket and handed it to him. “I’d like to do a shoot with you.” He told him. “A photoshoot.”

He’d never done a shoot for a photographer before, having spent his late teenage years learning how to walk for catwalks, measured up and thrown aside and discarded and then seized up again for designer after designer, Prada and Givenchy and Louis Vuitton and Gucci. He was immediately seized with excitement, the idea of branching out his career, gaining exposure elsewhere, but he reminded himself to keep his excitement in check until he knew the details. More than a few times, he’d found himself in situations dangerous and unpredictable, hands wandering and unexpected favours asked of him, hands pushing him into positions he was never warned of. “Who for?” He asked, shaking his hair back from his face.

“Vogue.” He replied, a sly smile twisting his face as he thought of the money he could make from a London Fashion Week special, a few hours to get a handful of wonderful shots. He could make them a little racy, honey and silk, he could take the modest shots and sell off any compromising ones to the Daily Mail or the Mirror - it could ruin Freddie’s career, but it would earn Jim a small fortune in the process. “Double page special.”

Freddie didn’t like the smile on his face, surreptitious and cruel; he could see a red spark in his eye, and though he couldn’t ascertain whether it was the reflection of the rubies lining the gowns opposite them or whether it was some intrinsic malice, he didn’t trust him. He met his eyes, held his eyes for a moment, and then smirked himself. “Fuck off.” He replied, the most important two words taught to him by Roger.

Jim’s face cycled between surprise, anger, disappointment, and then settled on a cold glance. He tossed the business card at him and turned on his heel, unused to the feeling of rejection, and he couldn’t stop himself from throwing a glance over his shoulder at him, even as another girl - beautiful, he noted, a curvy brunette with glossy dark curls, a little like Freddie’s-

He shook his head and let his hand fall down to squeeze her ass, a thousand more times impressive than his would ever be made on camera.

* * *

His chest was still heaving as he lay amongst the sheets, staring at the ceiling; his skin shone with sweat and his hand was sticky, even as he listened to the sound of his latest girl prettying herself for him in the bathroom.

He didn’t know why the fuck he couldn’t get that boy from his mind, wicked, gorgeously plump, scarlet lips, eyelashes that batted against his cheeks, carved cheekbones, the little pink tongue that darted out to wet his lips when he was concentrating hard. Maybe Jim had gotten a few photos of him dressing, that deep and intense focus on his face as he twisted and turned and adjusted, deeply personal shots of him adjusting the sit of the thong on his hips so it wouldn’t show beneath skin-tight trousers, photos even he wouldn’t dare sell.

And maybe that was why he was so heated that he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about what it might be like to see those lips around his cock. 

“Have you started without me, darling?” A feminine voice teased, standing at the foot of his bed, beautifully wrapped in black lingerie that should’ve left him longing to get his hands over such gorgeously smooth skin.

But he didn’t want that anymore; he wanted the feeling of rough hands, Freddie’s fingers digging into his shoulders, heels digging into his lower back-

His brain was a fucking mess of what he had and what he wanted, what he could never have, what was forbidden - he wanted to love softness, love grace, but he knew that he would love the feeling of a hard chest against his own even more. He wanted the forbidden fruit, wanted to taste another man’s musk, another man’s sweat, sharp and salty instead of soft and floral - he wanted to know what Freddie tasted of when he was in the midst of his pleasure, whether he was bitter or sweet.

He forced himself back into reality; he’d never find out. Men didn’t pleasure other men like that. He’d heard the stories, of course, men giving blowjobs in exchange for contracts, one of the stylists at Vogue with a penchant for rent-boys, the sleazy gay clubs in Charing Cross, but it was all contractual, all transactional, and he personally prided himself on having enough offers to never need to pay for sex.

“We’ve got all night, sweetheart.” He met her eyes as she crawled over him, letting his hands wander over the curve of her ass. “Plenty of time.”

* * *

“Is he- is he a gay?” Freddie asked, keeping his voice down, looking at where Jim was bent over one of the young Gucci boys to get a shot of his chest in snake-printed silk. 

“Is he gay?” Brian corrected, and then chuckled. “Definitely not. No one’s as successful as him if they’re gay.”

Freddie frowned and leaned on the palm of his hand, watching them. “Why?”

“It’s just- it’s a bit sleazy, don’t you think?” He replied. “I mean- it’s all a bit wrong. People would just think he was taking advantage - exploiting, using young guys for money.” He clarified.

“But he does so with the girls?” Freddie questioned.

“It’s different. He might marry one of them, you see, so they’re not being used in the same way.” He nodded. 

Freddie nodded unsurely. “Are any models a gay?” 

“A couple. A few of the Givenchy guys, I think, but I don’t see them as much as I used to. They stopped being chosen a few months back, I don’t know why.” He shrugged. “They were pretty good.”

The words weighed heavily in Freddie’s heart; he’d been wondering for months now if maybe, maybe he might like other men, if that’s why he hadn’t really made the time to date lots of girls and to have experiences with them like everyone else had. It just never seemed to be easy with girls, not in the way the others found - girls just spoke to them, and laughed with them, and dropped kisses on their cheeks or told them their phone number while they laughed and handled it with such grace. Freddie, though, never seemed to be able to talk to a girl without stammering, and they just looked at him and then walked away; he wasn’t the richest, wasn’t the most graceful, and he definitely looked a little feminine for their liking. 

But he didn’t want to like men if it would be the end of his career; his only experience of gay men had been a photographer he’d been paired with in India, an experience he hoped he’d never relive.

_“That’s five hundred, then, darling, for those photos.”_

_Freddie mouthed helplessly; they’d agreed on the price before he came, and that was all he had in his wallet. “You said four fifty.” He replied._

_“Did you not see some of those shots I got of you?” He arched an eyebrow. “You could sell them straight to any agency you wanted and you’d have a job within the week.”_

_“I only have four fifty.” He said meekly. “Can we take some of the photos out?”_

_“I’ve already wasted the film on you, now.” He said, turning angry, and backed him against the wall._

_“I could-” He scrambled backwards, trying to think of a way to save himself. “I could go home and get the fifty and bring it back?” He squeaked._

_“You think I’ve never been mugged off before? You say that, and then I never see you again, and you boast to everyone that you got money off.” He rested a hand on Freddie’s shoulder. “No, I know what you can do for me.”_

_“What?” He asked shyly._

_“Get on your knees.” He pushed him, but Freddie didn’t go down willingly. “I said, get on your fucking knees.”_

_He whined a little in hurt as his knees hit the floor, and watched as he went for his zipper, his heart pounding in his throat._

_He got up, he ran, but he’d never felt as bad as he did when the police arrived and beat his photographer._

“I could not be gay.” He said resolutely, and lit a cigarette.

“Me neither. I love girls too much.” Brian chuckled, taking a drag of the cigarette when Freddie offered it to him. “Like that- what’s she called? The one with the hots for you?”

Freddie’s cheeks flamed and he looked up quickly. “Efew?” He murmured in shock.

“Mary!” He said triumphantly. “The little blonde that works for Louis Vuitton. The one that wore that god-awful purple zigzag waistcoat on the runway.”

“Mary.” He echoed. “I have not- I have not speak to Mary.”

“No, but she’s been gushing over you while I was doing her hair. She saw you walking D&G on Saturday and now she wants to marry you.” He chuckled.

Freddie felt momentarily awestruck - there was a girl who liked him! “You must meet us.” He insisted; he’d take the opportunity with both hands if he could, the chance to be normal. Maybe, if he fell in love with her, then he’d stop having all these thoughts about men.

“I will!” He promised. “It’ll make her day. I tell you what, we usually have a big party at the end of Fashion Week every year, and I think that photographer’s hosting. I’ll introduce you then.”

Freddie frowned - he hadn’t heard of such a party. “I am not invited.” He said sadly.

“Oh, bullshit, half the people that turn up aren’t invited. I’m not invited.” He chuckled and shrugged. “But I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Freddie felt his spirits lift again and he nodded. “Thank you.” He smiled.

“No problem.” He smacked Freddie’s thigh with a chuckle and stood up. “I’ll make a playboy out of you in no time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the wonderful comments on the opening chapter - I'd love to keep seeing new and old faces in the comments!


	3. Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party.

He’d been told all his life that politeness correlated directly with being on time, if not early for events; when he was told that the party would start at eight, he’d immediately made a note in his mind to leave his apartment no later than six thirty, giving him plenty of time to stand next to the tube map for half an hour to work out how exactly each line connected to the next. He’d used D&G cabs for the rest of his trip, but he couldn’t charge a leisure trip on expenses, and he didn’t have the money to throw around to get a cab from one side of London to the other.

He knocked tentatively on the door of the house in front of him, checking again that it matched the name on the frayed paper in his hand. It seemed to be the wrong building, and he immediately grew worried that he’d have to stammer out a request for directions, when he couldn’t even pronounce the second word of the name - he didn’t want to make a fool of himself by asking for  _ gar-den lod-guh. _

Jim opened the door, wiping his hands on his jeans, and Freddie’s mouth went dry. The house behind him was quiet, not the noise and music and shouting and laughing that he’d been expecting, and he was immediately frightened that he’d been set up, the one who didn’t understand London.

“You’re early.” Jim smiled, taking the bottle of wine from him and standing out of the way so that Freddie could enter the grounds. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“I- I did not know I was invited.” Freddie smiled shyly, unbuttoning his shirt sleeves to fold them up as he followed him. He felt a little overdressed - he was wearing wine red suit trousers, red braces and a black shirt. “Am I dressed bad?” He asked self-consciously.

“Bad?” Jim echoed, taking a moment to look over him appreciatively; he’d assumed something slutty, little shorts or a jacket with no shirt, but he loved a man who made an effort. “Not at all. You look wonderful.”

Without the camera in his hand, Jim seemed to lose that glint in his eye, the money-making, profit-driven, margin-calculating scheming side to his brain that Freddie didn’t trust; he seemed to mellow a little in the safety of his own home. Freddie let himself look around, calming a little: the grounds seemed endless, ponds and vast expanses of grass, every table already filled with clean glasses and bottles of champagne on ice. He looked up at the lead-lined contours of the building, seeming to stretch endlessly into his peripheral vision no matter how far he looked upwards or outwards.

“Like it?” Jim chuckled, unlocking the front door and holding it open. 

“It’s beautiful.” Freddie said earnestly. “I do not- I don’t think I have ever been somewhere so large.”

Jim cracked open the bottle of wine and poured him a glass, watching as he wandered around the reception room, trailing his fingers over the piano. It was so incredibly extravagant, a house made for large parties, overflowing with room for dancing, for music, classy affairs with ballroom dancing and jazz music and sleazy affairs with a disc-jockey and grinding, anything and everything happening between those walls. He sat on the sofa, watching him curiously as he lifted the lid to the keys, and smiled at the look of longing on his face. “Do you play?”

“Me?” Freddie asked by force of habit, a blush suffusing over his cheeks. “I- yes. I can play piano. Do you?”

“Not a note.” Jim laughed. “Play me something.”

Freddie sat hesitantly on the stool, resting his fingers lightly on the keys. “Will not I disturb your guests?”

“You’re the only one here.” Jim sipped a glass of champagne idly. “The others will be at least an hour and a half.”

The time seemed to stretch out infinitely in Freddie’s mind; he was frightened of being a little too boring for Jim’s tastes. He bit his lip and started to play, slowly, softly, lightly, closing his eyes - he didn’t dare play anything too loud, too complex, not wanting to perturb his host. 

When he glanced over at Jim, his eyes were closed, his mind lost in the music as though it were the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard, and Freddie’s confidence grew inside, filling with warmth as though he was back in the midnight sun in India, darkness and warmth simultaneously. He dared himself to play something he’d written, something his own, something deep and personal and hopeful and beautiful, hoping he could say everything he’d ever wanted to but had never been able to find the words for, not in Persian, nor Hindi, nor French, nor Arabic, nor Swahili, nor English.

“That is divine.” Jim’s voice was almost a moan, and Freddie couldn’t help the feeling of confidence, lazy and liquid and languid, running through him like treacle, molasses, sweet and sticky and addictive. “Why the hell aren’t you a pianist?”

To Freddie, the answer seemed simple. “Because I am a model.” He replied.

“I know that.” Jim said exasperatedly, sitting up from where he’d been slumped back amongst the sheets. “But beauty- beauty means nothing. Beauty is just a good photograph, it’s two seconds, everyone forgets it. But that- that-” He stood up and walked over to the piano, lifting the cover. “That deserves to be remembered.”

Though he didn’t understand the praise, he understood its worth. “I would like to be a pianist.”

“You should be.” Jim insisted, leaning his hip against the piano. “It’s beautiful.”

Freddie jumped when he felt softness against his ankle, but Jim smiled and leaned down, picking up a huge, purring bundle of ginger fur. “A cat?” Freddie asked dumbly.

“Oh, I’ll lock him in my bedroom later so he doesn’t get like- shaved or something.” He kissed the cat’s forehead. “This is Oscar.”

“Oscar.” Freddie broke into a grin. “Selam khewshegulh! Shema shaaan setaash hestad.” He cooed, scratching the cat’s chin and kissing its forehead; he looked so much like Freddie’s own cat back home. 

“What?” Jim asked, chuckling to himself, and Freddie’s cheeks flamed scarlet.

“Oh! I did not- I didn’t intend to speak.” He bit his lip shyly. “It is Persian. I say hello to the cat.”

“It sounds nice. Is that what you speak- where do you come from?” He asked curiously.

“I am from Zanzibar, and I live in India. I speak Persian and Hindi.” He smiled shyly. “Also Arabic, French and Swahili.”

“How long have you spoken English?” He asked curiously.

“Four months.” Freddie rubbed his neck shyly.

“Four months?” He replied incredulously. “But you’re like- nearly fluent!”

“That is a big praise.” He laughed shyly. “My English is not so good. I am better since I came here.”

“I’m being serious. I couldn’t learn a whole new language in four months.” Jim insisted.

“Well, I- I went to English school.” He explained. “I started to learn when fourteen, but seriously now. Only can talk to English person now.”

“Still impressive either way.” Jim chuckled and put Oscar down. “Any other talents, besides piano and languages?”

“I like to paint, and I dance. I like to sing, not in English. I swim and run also.” He smiled. “You?”

“The photography is a big one.” He drained his glass and tapped on it meditatively. “Sex isn’t a hobby, is it? That’s what I do with the rest of my time.”

* * *

Freddie was ridiculously, cataleptically, obscenely drunk, barely able to stand, let alone walk in a straight line, barely able to talk, most definitely not able to think. He was sat in a corner, the Louis Vuitton blonde in his lap, intermittently kissing and declaring love to her, and Jim’s toes were almost curling with the embarrassment he knew he’d feel in the morning. He walked over to them and pulled the lovers apart, hauling Freddie to his feet and catching him when he nearly went face-first into the beloved piano. “Sorry, love.” Jim apologised, steadying Freddie with one arm. “He’ll probably be sick in about ten minutes, and I’d rather it wasn’t down your throat.”

She laughed and stood up, smoothing out her dress and her hair. “Tell him I’ll call him.” She winked and headed for the kitchen.

“Mary!” Freddie called out drunkenly, struggling his way out of Jim’s grip, but he caught him again.

“No you don’t.” He muttered, eyeing the staircase in the hallway and thinking better of making Freddie walk it. He picked him up, a little surprised by just how easy it was, expecting Freddie to thrash and kick.

“Go home.” Freddie muttered instead, flopping in his arms. “Train time.”

“I am not letting you get on any train by yourself.” Jim murmured, unlocking his bedroom door and unceremoniously throwing Freddie down on the bed. He knew better than to leave someone so vulnerable on their own in the middle of London at four in the morning, and he wouldn’t have it on his conscience if he got knifed.

“Got condoms?” He asked cheekily, and Jim gasped out a laugh and slapped his thigh.

“Shut up, Freddie!” He laughed, searching through a drawer from some pajamas that might fit him. He found an old pair, silky little things, and sat opposite him on the bed. “Take your braces off.”

“What are you do to me?” He slurred, reaching for Jim’s belt.

“Shut up.” Jim replied again, amused smile on his face.

“But I-”

“Shut up!” Jim pressed a hand over Freddie’s mouth until they were both laughing. “Braces.”

Freddie took them off obligingly, though it took him a few attempts to find where they even were. “Now shirt.”

That went off over his head, and he was so tantalisingly close, but Jim wouldn’t abuse his trust like that. He may have enjoyed sex, and he may have wanted him, but he wasn’t a monster; even if Freddie seemed into him while he was paralytically drunk, it was no guarantee that he actually wanted to sleep with him. “Now lift up your arms.”

Freddie did as he was told and Jim helped him put the pajama top on, smoothing it out. “Take off your trousers.”

Freddie hooked his thumb in the waistband of his trousers and underwear, but Jim clicked his tongue. “You can leave those on.” He said firmly.

Soon, Freddie was all dressed up in his pajamas, curled up on the spare side of the bed, and Jim couldn’t help but drop a little kiss on his cheek; the alcohol had mellowed him, and he’d probably never get the chance to again. For once in his life, the profit-making side of his brain had switched off.

“I’m going downstairs.” He told him. “You get some rest, sweetheart, okay?”

Freddie nodded, eyelids heavy, and smiled a little when Jim smoothed his tangled hair back from his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so fun to write - thank you for all your lovely comments. (Also, do not fear - I promise this is not the end of the characters you met in the first two chapters, merely a drunken personality shift!)


	4. Compromising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miscommunication.

Consciousness came to him, gentle, like the ebb and flow of water around him, washing and warming him in sensation; he was melting, shattering into a thousand pieces, his mind a hundred thousand miles from his body and only getting farther and farther away. He was melting in the sensation of arms around him, of soft breaths rolling over the mountains of his cheekbones and the valleys of their hollows, running, escaping, valiantly fleeing over his jawline, leaping over his pulse point, disappearing far below the hem of his shirt. He was melting in the lazy winter-warmth of the sun through long-forgotten curtains, whispering to him, moaning to him, rolling him awake with a feeling that was a little too much like that of the cradle of a newborn baby being rocked to sleep. He was melting in the feeling of his cheek pressed to a bicep, firm and strong against his baby-warm skin, cushioned against a hard chest that moved steadily with each breath of the beloved-

Freddie’s eyes startled open and he looked around quickly, his mouth turning dry; the chest against which he’d been cradled was a man’s, and the arms were a man’s, and the soft-sweet-peppermint breath was a man’s, and this was never where he’d intended to wake up. 

He’d intended florals, his back pressed to his own cotton sheets, long and lean legs tangled with his own and a powdered cheek to his bare chest; he’d intended her soft-sweet-peppermint taste in his mouth with a good morning kiss, the feeling in his heart that he’d won, that he’d done it, that he’d finally managed to fall in love. He’d expected candy kisses and a butterscotch  _ bewsh, _ a note of his telephone number that she could follow up in India - he’d be coming back soon, he was more than sure, if the conversations he was having with Valentino were to come to anything.

He felt angry, fury leaking through his veins in the same manner as the liquid confidence from the night before, heavy and molten like lead, freezing him in the moment of what should have been.

He snatched his shirt off the floor as the man beside him awoke, and it filled him with disgust when he saw it was that photographer. “Freddie?” He asked sleepily.

“No.” He spat back, unable to comprehend everything else that he wanted to say, tearing off the ridiculous little silky thing that he was wearing from the night before. He felt embarrassed, humiliated, having been played with and toyed with like some new experiment, dressed up in his clothes like a doll; his cheeks flamed scarlet as he thought of what they could’ve done together. He’d thought about it occasionally, what it would be like to- to do  _ things  _ with a man, secretly and guiltily, and he’d been a little too excited by the idea. He hated the idea now, though, that he’d had that man’s hands all over him while he’d been drunk, and he hated the fact that he couldn’t remember a minute of it. 

He picked up his trousers, his braces, and ran to the bathroom, bolting himself in as quickly as he could. He dressed, brushed his teeth, rinsed his face off with cold water, trying to cool himself in mind and spirit.

“Freddie?” Jim tried again, picking a pair of sweatpants off the floor and knocking on the bathroom door. “Everything okay?”

“Go away!” He shouted, sounding like a child, but he was muddled and hungover and frightened, and bitterly disappointed that he hadn’t succeeded with Mary. 

“What’s the matter?” Jim asked, his voice softening a little. “Listen, I-”

“Fuck off!” Freddie opened the door and pushed past him, nearly flinging himself down the grand staircase in his panic. He didn’t trust that photographer, not an ounce, and he was frightened of all the photos he’d have, photographs he would’ve acquiesced to, sleaze. He couldn’t help feeling a little bitter; the first real opportunity he’d had with a woman had been smacked out of his hand by someone bigger, the cat and the mouse, just because Freddie had been more successful that night.

“What’s gotten into you?” He followed him down the stairs, brow turning angry; the least he could’ve gotten was a thank you. “You’ve turned into an asshole.”

“You- you-” Freddie stammered with rage. “You wrecked it!”

“Wrecked what?” He asked exasperatedly. “What’s your problem?”

“I got her and you did not!” He wrenched the door open and ran down the path. He looked frightened, trapped, an animal in a cage, a butterfly in a net, a bird in a box; he looked ruined.

“You’re being ridiculous.” Jim crossed his arms. “Freddie, she-” He felt a sudden glint of something cruel in his heart, something that wanted to hurt him for the way he’d spoken to him; he wasn’t used to being rejected, being challenged, being treated so fucking disrespectfully when he was a model, a model living at home with his parents and relying on expenses to pay his way, barely two pennies to his name. “She just wasn’t that into you.”

Freddie was filled with anger, disappointment, upset, and a yearning to go home. Brian’s words came back to him, leaking into his brain, filling him with the security that came with having concrete words to throw back at him.

_ People would just think he was taking advantage - exploiting, using young guys for money. _

“You-” He pushed on the gate as hard as he could, though it wouldn’t budge. “You exploit me!”

“Exploit you? We didn’t do anything!” Jim replied, rolling his eyes. 

“You used me!” Freddie had created this reality now, one he had to believe in regardless of anything else. He had to make his own truth just to stay sane, just to fill in the blanks in his mind.

“I used you?” Jim was almost laughing, thinking of how willingly Freddie had struck a pose when he’d gotten the camera out at six in the morning. “Bullshit.”

“You did!” He was desperate, now, unable to get the gate to budge, and so he turned around to look Jim in the eye. “I was good!”

He hurled himself at Jim, smacking him weakly in the chest, until Jim grabbed both his wrists and pushed him out the gate. “Go fuck yourself.” He spat.

* * *

He turned each polaroid over, smooth snapshots of the man with the bronze skin wrapped up in black satin pajamas, leg lifted high enough that the shorts had slipped down to reveal the hemline of his thong; another snapshot was the inside of his mouth, obscene and wide, held open, playful and willing, just a little too suggestive. Jim knew reporters that would kill for these photos, would create a whole world that had never happened, a night of debauchery and a scandal of the night when the newest  _ exotic  _ model had tried to sleep with him, tried to solicit him, a man, for sex.

He didn’t care if it had never happened, if he suffocated Freddie amongst the layers of fabric of his own petty revenge, if he solidified his own future, determined that he’d never be able to go to one of those clubs and just look, just watch, again.

* * *

He stuffed as much as he could in his suitcase, never wasting enough time to fold or roll anything, leaving expensive gifted bottles of shampoo and toothbrushes and a new jacket over the back of a door in his haste, fully aware he looked awful; his hair was unbrushed, he was breaking out, he was tired and sad and he really, really needed his home more than anything else.

* * *

“How much?” He asked, sliding a few photos over the table, the cream of his crop, the most debauched photos he had, backstage at fashion week in just his underwear, a little too close to the designers, their hands on his waist and his hands on the small of their back, lightly suggestive; enough to furnish the story he’d created and he’d sell.

“For these?” He asked. “Wouldn’t get more than a hundred. No one knows who he is.”

“A hundred?” Jim stuttered. “But he’s- he’s a fucking faggot!”

“And they exist, unfortunately.” He lit a cigarette. “I tell you what. You get him on the front cover of Vogue, you get him known, and I’ll pay a thousand and royalties.”

Jim arched an eyebrow; he didn’t often get such a good wage for lazy work. “Give me time.” He agreed, a smirk settling on his face.

* * *

He threw his suitcase down, followed by his gloves, followed by his sunglasses, not caring when one of the lenses shattered - he was glad to be home, glad to be away from England, from people who wanted to do him wrong, people he didn’t understand and didn’t want to understand him. He didn’t want to use his new stupid language anymore, he was sick of not being understood, not understanding, being spoken to like he was stupid, like he was a child and not a respectable man of twenty-

“Mama!” He burst into tears when she wrapped her arms around him, seeing the disappointment and sadness in the lines of his face.

“Oh, darling.” She petted his hair lightly; it was comforting to finally hear someone else speaking Persian, speaking to him properly. “How was England?”

“I hated it.” He mumbled dejectedly, burying his face in her shoulder. “The people are horrible.”

She sighed; it had always been his dream to go to England, and it seemed to have shattered before his very eyes. “We must try somewhere else.” She said resolutely. “What about New York? You always liked New York.”

He sniffed wetly and rubbed his eyes, considering her suggestion; at least, if he was in New York, he’d be three and a half thousand miles from that disgusting photographer - though there was one caveat. “I must have a wife by then.”

* * *

Mary rolled her eyes, tapped her fingers impatiently as the phone rang on and on, seemingly ignored by the boy she was so desperately in love with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe I'll sike you all and make this a secret Freddie/Mary fic (obviously I'm not going to do that but that would be a twist hey!)


	5. Mirrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You see what reflects back to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God I love this fic so much

Six months had given him hope; six months had cleansed the weary look on his face, had cleansed the weariness of his mind, had cleansed the weariness of his soul. Six months had given him a new confidence in the way he walked, left foot turned out ever so slightly and the right pointing directly forward, purposeful, driven, determined: six months had given him an extra inch of height, an elegance to his manicured fingers, a golden tint of the Indian summer that clung to his hair and darkened his skin. Six months of toes in the pool, swimming miles upon miles and looking only stronger for it, lean definition in his arms and his shoulders; six months of looking his best and feeling better.

This time, he hadn’t settled with what he’d been given, discarded by six agencies and accepted by the seventh with a doubtful look; he’d sent photos all over the world, Moscow, Tokyo, London, Paris, Milan, Venice, Budapest, New York, San Francisco, Washington, Armani and Chanel and Dior and Gucci, Givenchy and Fendi and Versace and Yves San Laurent - he wore Louboutins to meetings, loafers and espadrilles and the stilettos on practice walks as well as any of the girls could.

This time, they’d fought over him.

This time, he’d practice the coy little glance from beneath his eyelashes, the curl of his lips in a confident smirk, oh-so-the-boy-next-door, untouchable and so incredibly loveable. He’d taken a new host of photos, emphasising the grace of those newly toned arms, the pop of collarbones, trademark lips and freckles left untouched.

They’d gone crazy, offering him sums of money he’d never expected, tens of thousands into hundreds of thousands, outbidding one another for his attention, his custom, for him to walk their range at New York Fashion Week. 

“Versace?” Mary asked, coming up behind him and squeezing his shoulders with a pretty little smile. “I thought you were going Valentino?”

“Oh, darling!” He tore off his barber’s gown and stood up, enveloping her in his arms. She was a clever little thing, he’d discovered when she had somehow gotten her hands on his phone number; they’d spent half his nights talking, sometimes just listening to one another carry on their day - she’d come to love listening to his piano practice. She was in love with him, she was sure; she was in love with the way he always confessed his love in French, keeping his voice away from the prying ears of his family, so thrilled he’d found himself a girl who could be his wife.

“I missed you!” She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him excitedly; he chuckled and rested his hands on her waist, idly pressing a few kisses to her lips. 

“I missed you too, princess.” He pushed her hair from her face and smiled when it fell back in her eyes again. He was happy with how confident his voice sounded; he’d been taking classes again, not wanting to repeat his humiliating experience in London. “You look different. Beautiful.” He corrected himself quickly. 

She smiled sweetly and looked down at her outfit; she was wearing an old little thing, a Vuitton from four seasons ago, but she would take the indulgence of the compliment. “You look wonderful.” She said earnestly. “How long have you been here?”

“My plane came-” He glanced at the clock. “Three hours before. Not long.”

“I’ve been here a week. It’s amazing, isn’t it? New York City.” She sighed happily and took his hands. “It’s so romantic.”

“We will live here.” He smiled. “Soon, darling.”

She squealed and kissed him again. “You’d move here?”

“I think I like it.” He chuckled. “We- we-” His cheeks flushed a little when he forgot the word, but he chastised himself; she’d spent hours patiently listening to him as he learned more and more words, more expressions, and he didn’t know why he was so flustered now he was seeing her in person. “We go out some night.” He settled on eventually.

“We should!” She agreed. “You should take me out for dinner.” She winked playfully.

“Times Square?” He offered, squeezing her hand. “I hear some good restaurants there.”

Her mouth opened in surprise, looking as though he’d just offered her diamonds and puppies and flowers. “I was joking!” She gasped. “Are you serious?”

“If you want, petal.” He pressed another kiss to her cheek and looked out into the corridor when he heard a voice that was a little too familiar; he scowled when he heard the voice of the sleazy Irishman he’d come to loathe.

“I forgot to warn you!” She squeaked. “I heard that that prick was back for Vogue. I complained about him so much at work that Vuitton have actually blacklisted him from shooting their models. He isn’t allowed to take photos of us, or have anything to do with us.” She clarified when she saw his look of confusion, sounding awfully smug.

“That is- that is brilliant.” He chuckled. “I not walk London again because of him.”

“Vogue didn’t feature any of his photos from the September fashion week because someone told them he was taking sleazy photos and selling them to newspapers.” She whispered. “He worked the whole four days, and they didn’t use any of them. He didn’t get paid a penny for it. He’s a little disgraced, he’s trying to build his reputation back up.”

“He must start by- by- by being a not prick.” He murmured in her ear and she snorted with laughter, elbowing him in the waist when Jim walked into the room.

“Freddie!” He said brightly, trying to put old grudges aside; he needed the beautiful model more than ever if he were to ever break the front page again. 

“He’s not interested.” Mary said confidently as Freddie walked back over to the make-up table, leaning into the mirror and hollowing his cheeks, almost teasing him with all the photos he couldn’t have.

“Listen, sweetheart-” Jim started, voice high and patronising, and Freddie arched an eyebrow.

“You haven’t changed.” He turned around and crossed his arms, leaning back against the bench. 

“I didn’t have to change.” He said defensively, taking his cigarettes out - Marlboro Reds, Freddie noted with a smirk; he wasn’t flashing around the Black Russians anymore.

Freddie picked his own packet off the side, watching the moment that Jim clocked he was smoking Sobranies, the moment he realised that they’d changed places, that he wasn’t the one to flash his wealth around after he’d had a few months where he’d been tight on the mortgage. “Whatever you say.” He breathed, taking a long drag and blowing smoke at the ceiling, exposing the long column of his throat, almost deliberately seductive just to wind him up further, just to play the brat. If they had had sex, it would only bring back the memories for him. 

He turned on his heel and left the room, and Mary burst out laughing. “You sounded so confident!” She grinned. “Your English is getting so much better.”

“I will be fluent.” He said, sounding determined. “I am learning- what is the word? Squashed words?”

“Contractions?” She laughed. “You’re so clever, baby. You’re brains and beauty.”

* * *

“John!” Jim whispered, grabbing his wrist and pulling. “John, John, come here.”

“What-” He laughed loudly, stumbling as he was dragged. “Jim, this is a fucking cupboard!”

“I need to talk to you.” He insisted, pushing him in and closing the door behind him. “Listen, this is a fucking disaster.”

“I highly doubt it, somehow.” John commented idly, fiddling with the exposure levels on his camera. “You’re so dramatic. We should be shooting backstage photos.”

“No, listen, I- I think-” He shook his head frustratedly. “I think I’m in love.”

“Congratulations?” He arched an eyebrow. “I really don’t feel like now is the time for this conversation.”

“Shut up!” He replied exasperatedly. “I’m in love with one of the models, and I don’t know what to do.”

“Shag her? It’s what you’ve done to the rest. You’re not usually shy about this shit, Jay.” He chuckled. “I think I’ve heard more about sexual conquests than anyone needs to know about their best friend.

“I’m in love with Freddie.” He blurted out, his cheeks colouring. 

“Oh.” John looked genuinely surprised. “Vogue will fire you if they find out.”

“I know.” He said dejectedly, picking at his fingernails. “I feel disgusting. It’s all wrong. I just need to talk to him, but he’s always with that bitch of a girlfriend he’s got. She seems to bring out the worst in me.”

“I don’t think I’ve actually ever see you be nice to him.” He pointed out. “Maybe that’s somewhere to start.”

“I’m too bloody defensive.” He sighed. “I just- I don’t think he’s that into her? Not really. I kind’ve just want to kiss him to see if it feels right.”

“It might not stop you from feeling disgusting.” He pointed out. “And you’ll risk your job.”

“I just hate it being some little dirty secret.” He bit his nail. “I don’t- I don’t even want to be like this, I don’t want to love him, I wish I’d never fucking met him. He’s been nothing but awful to me.”

“I think he’s mainly defensive because you’re a bit of a prick. No offence, or anything.” He said quickly. “Offer to do a shoot with him, you might never get him on his own otherwise. They’re practically attached.”

“He’d never do that.” He sighed. “He’s got enough business as it is. I heard Versace are paying him six figures, it’s unheard of to do that for someone who’s not categorically mainstream.”

“Appetites are changing.” John shrugged and pushed open the door to the little closet. “Take some photos of him, get them printed express and actually show them to him. He’s more than your prop for money.”

* * *

“Freddie?” Jim tried again, standing in the doorway of his dressing room. “Can I come in?”

“Not wanted.” He replied, continuing to flick through a magazine while he ate his lunch. 

“No, listen- please.” He softened his voice a little. “I’ve got some photos for you.”

Freddie’s interest picked up; if they were good, he could add them to his portfolio, and he could hopefully swindle them free of charge if Jim was so determined to make amends. “Let’s see.” He said, putting the noodles down and turning to him. 

“There’s a couple that weren’t printed at London.” He sat beside him, his heartbeat quickening at how close they were again, and the hopefulness that time had mellowed Freddie’s distrust of him. “And a couple I’ve taken backstage here. There’s one of you and Mary I thought you might like just as a couple’s photo.”

He took the glossy prints from him, turning them over carefully as though they were the original film, as though they were printed in gold. The first was him laughing, his legs in Roger’s lap, curls unruly, relaxed and happy as they drank coffee and smoked together; the next was his debut for D&G, the awed shot that had got him on the centre pages of Vogue in the London special; following that was a photo of him alone in his dressing room, draped in a traditional kaftan, using moves from his old dancing days to warm up his legs before he went to get dressed; the final one was Mary sat in his lap, hand on his cheek, looking up at him as though he were the moon and the stars and everything in between - he wished he felt the same way about her. Interspersed were more pictures of his walks, of his professional life, but he was drawn to the ones so deeply personal, moments when he’d thought no one was looking, no one was interested, and especially not the camera.

“These are beautiful.” He admitted, smiling shyly as he looked over at Jim. “I- I did not know you are there.”

“That’s how it should be sometimes, I think. Sometimes I like these more than the ones on stage.” He admitted. “I thought you might like to keep them.”

“How much money?” He asked, reaching for his wallet.

“Nothing!” Jim promised. “Nothing. I wouldn’t sell them anyway, and they’re pictures of you. You shouldn’t have to pay for your own photos.”

Freddie smiled and tucked them inside his bag, his heart prickling with gratitude for the man beside him; it was difficult to get good shots at an affordable price, and they were never free. He was reliant on photos, good lighting, good angles, for the life that he had, a puppet for another’s art. “Thank you.” He said, voice gentle and soft.

“It’s my pleasure.” Jim whispered, leaning in a little, hesitant, almost frightened, before he closed the gap between them and ever-so-gently kissed him.

And for a few seconds, Freddie was in Heaven, and he was nothing more than the warmth between them, the gentle lips on his own, fragments of crystalline beauty; he was a ruby, a garnet, an emerald, held and cradled so gently, a touch he’d been yearning for his whole life. He was precious, he was mystical, he was small and hopeful and young again, he wasn’t forcing the love in his heart - he was a rainbow, organic, bright, so happy, blossoming as his heart surged, the meeting of his own sun and his beloved’s rain. He was the breaking of dawn, light into darkness, and dusk, darkness into light, wrong and right blurred into a collage of this, all he could feel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People who commented on the first chapter - what are you thinking now?
> 
> (PS. I've had some questions over whether I'm going to continue Tell Me I'm An Angel - anyone interested?)


	6. Central Park

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They get their alone time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been to Manhattan/Central Park once and it was covered in snow so I apologise for any descriptions that are horrendously inaccurate or gratuitous use of poetic license!

Jim had expected explosive anger, a punishment for tasting the forbidden fruit; he had expected to be hit in his weakest moment, his moment of vulnerability, to be subjected to verbal abuse. He had expected something of a rerun of the moment at his house, Freddie’s fear of him, what there could be between them.

He hadn’t expected the sweetest, most gentle sigh against his lips, Freddie’s fingers gently resting on his shoulders as he broke away. “We can- we cannot.” He whispered as Jim cupped his cheek, touching that softest of skin. 

“Baby, we can.” Jim whispered. “I- I love you.”

His cheeks pinkened and he looked down at his toes, smiling shyly. “It is not right. I- I have to marry.”

“Do you want to?” He asked softly. “Or are you doing it because you have to?”

Freddie let himself be kissed again, let himself indulge in the velvet-softness of his lips, and let his eyes flutter closed. Jim traced his cheekbone with the pad of his thumb, smiling a little against his lips when Freddie melted into the touch; he’d kissed someone new for almost every day of the last ten years, but it had never felt like this before, so perfect, so complete.

“She loves me.” Freddie murmured shyly.

“I love you.” He whispered against his lips. “Does she love you, or does she love the idea of you?”

Freddie pulled away, frowning, though his cheeks were flushed. “What- what?”

“Does she love the idea of being in love? Does she love you, or does she love the idea of having somebody to care for her?” He asked. “I’m not saying she’s a bad person, but she’s - she’s eighteen, Freddie, and infatuation doesn’t last forever.”

“Infa- infation?” Freddie stumbled over the word. “Infatution?”

“It’s like-” He leaned back, enjoying having Freddie’s attention. “Love, but it’s short. And very strong.”

Freddie wondered if that’s what he had felt for Mary, such an intense love for her because he could be loved by her, because she wanted to love him. “You are infatuation?” He asked, proud when he finally got the word right. “For me?”

“I’ve loved you for too long.” He smiled shyly. “I realised a few weeks after you left, and you went back to India. Everyone in the office was talking about you, and every time I heard your name, my heart would start beating faster and I didn’t know why.”

It was the biggest compliment, and Freddie’s cheeks flushed with delight. “You have missed me?”

“They didn’t want me to shoot another Fashion Week, but I convinced them to let me shoot London’s autumn one with another photographer, and then you weren’t there. I begged them to let me come here so I might see you again.” Jim took his hand, those elegant, manicured fingers, and smiled despite himself. 

“Darling…” Freddie sighed happily; he could almost feel himself falling in love, so quickly.

Mary burst into the room and Freddie looked up quickly, his cheeks pinkening. “Darling!” He stood up quickly.

She ran over to him and threw her arms around his neck, kissing him excitedly. Freddie wanted to indulge in it, but he couldn’t; the taste was wrong, bubblegum instead of soft-sweet-peppermint, and he realised the love in his heart for her was forced. “What’s he doing here?” She asked, scowling over at Jim. 

Freddie had to think of an excuse - Jim was still wearing that look on his face, the love-doped look of happiness, and he was going to be no help. “We are doing a shoot.” He told her confidently. “We are making a time.”

Jim seemed to snap out of it a little. “We were thinking tomorrow at two.” He told her; he’d memorised the schedule, and he knew Vuitton were walking at two. He wanted Freddie alone.

“Is that okay with you, darling?” Mary cupped his cheek carefully. “You don’t have to do it just because it’s Vogue.”

“It’s the Vogue front cover, of course he’ll want to do it.” Jim’s personality seemed to cool again, covering up any softness, any tenderness he’d shown to Freddie. “So we’re going to go out in Manhattan and shoot.”

Freddie hadn’t heard of this plan before, but the idea that he could be the cover star made his eyes widen with excitement. “I am happy.” He promised Mary. He would be even happier, he was sure. If he could get a few hours with him, maybe convince him to spend a night at the apartment that Versace were renting for him, he’d be on top of the world.

* * *

Freddie giggled as Jim ran along, holding his hand tightly. “Where are we going?” Freddie asked breathlessly, gasping when Jim pushed him against a wall and kissed him. He grinned against his lips and kissed back, sinking and melting, but then they were off and running again as quickly as they’d stopped.

“I don’t know.” Jim shrugged, slowing down to a walk beside him. “Somewhere far away. Let’s go to Central Park.”

Freddie swung their hands playfully. “It’s pretty.” He murmured, glancing up at the falling leaves around them, the autumn sunshine darting between boughs of amber and mint, pear and chocolate, pine and maroon tumbling from the trees. 

“I want to find a leaf pile.” Jim looked down at their fingers and smiled. “Or a pretty tree. They haven’t done an outdoor shoot in forever.”

“What do I wear?” He asked curiously, looking down at himself; he was dressed casually, white t-shirt and blue jeans, gifted pieces, years away from the pomp of the catwalk. “I am wrong?”

“You can wear whatever you’d like.” Jim shrugged. “I might just photograph your face. I think we can do something a little different, make it about you instead of your body.”

Freddie looked horrified, as though he’d just insulted his physique, and shrunk into himself a little. “I am sorry.” He replied, sounding wounded. 

Jim’s eyes widened when he realised his mistake. “No, baby!” He said quickly, adoring the flush of pink that suffused over Freddie’s cheeks at the pet name. “You’re beautiful, Freddie, I didn’t mean it like that. I just want to show them your face instead of the clothes you’re wearing.”

He started to smile. “You think I am beautiful?”

“You know you’re beautiful.” Jim grinned. “Versace are paying you six figures and a place in Manhattan. That’s when you know you’re beautiful.”

Freddie followed him into Central Park, silenced for a moment by the beauty of the scenery, icy cold water reflecting the sunlight onto tall buildings, endless in their might, reaching up to the sky in deceitful worship. All the world’s forests seemed to stretch out before him, shedding their leaves like his own red carpet, organic, the sun darting through gaps in branches to mimic the flash of the photographer’s camera. He took a few steps forward, amazed by the beauty around him, and broke into a smile so innocent, so awed, that Jim couldn’t help but photograph him. “Beautiful.” He murmured, the sound echoing through the whistling of the wind.

Jim let himself follow Freddie wordlessly, let him creep to that place which brought him most joy, where the leaves were caramel and the ground was dry, where the buds on the tree were the same pink as his cheeks. “Here.” Freddie murmured.

“Here?” Jim asked, taking a few shots to adjust his camera. “Just ignore me. I’m not here.”

Freddie smiled, feeling as though they were playing at being children again, and picked up the blossom of an old flower, lifting it to smell its fading perfume, violet or geranium or rose or daisy, sweet and pretty or old and sour, the smell of life and the smell of death integrating into one, into imperfect, into real. He closed his eyes, cementing the smell in his mind, the smell of now, the smell of knowing who he was, being happy for a few stolen hours, not having to think about anything other than soft-sweet-peppermint lips and flowers, gentle breezes and the rustle of silk sheets against bare skin.

He sat on the ground, nestled safely amongst the leaves, and glanced up at the camera, lips automatically forming his pout; it was ingrained in him, always knowing his best angles, always knowing the positions that would make his cheekbones pop, his neck seem long and graceful, his jawline sharper. 

“Smile, baby.” Jim crouched beside him and leaned over him. “I don’t want you to look perfect. I want to see that beautiful smile.” He whispered.

It was so easy to make Freddie blush, and that peony pink was so addictive, almost thrilling to Jim; the shy twist of his lips into a smile, that staining influence, looked so at home amongst autumn herself. “Gorgeous.” He murmured as Freddie closed his eyes, letting himself be played like his faithful piano, melting under his fingers like warm wax, crafted into something beautiful.

He’d never done a shoot like this before, never been so willing to let himself go, never stopped focusing on his angles and his presentation; he put ultimate faith in Jim to handle the photos and just let himself melt.

Jim pulled back and his eyes followed him, watching him quizzically as he sat up and picked leaves from his hair. “Did you always want to be a model?” Jim asked curiously.

“No.” Freddie chuckled. “I was to be a dancer. I broke my ankle.” He explained. “Then I was pianist, then I was- I was chosen.”

“Have you always been this confident in yourself?” He asked, genuinely surprised to hear that it hadn’t always been his ambition.

“I had-” He tried to think of the word, but gave up quickly. “Teeth.” He settled on making a gesture instead, to show Jim that he believed them to have been crooked.

“Did you get them fixed?” He asked curiously, kneeling down to take a few pictures from between his legs, up the planes of his stomach and chest.

“I was to marry.” Freddie’s cheeks coloured again, more scarlet this time, and Jim could tell he was embarrassed. “Her father, he wanted to fix. So I fix.”

“Why didn’t you marry her?” Jim’s voice softened a little.

“I am a model. I am not father, I am- I am travelling. I must have proper job.” He shrugged. “So I say no, and we do not marry. I like to be a model.”

Freddie seemed so young to be someone having already had marriage propositions hurled at him; Jim wondered what his life would’ve been like if he hadn’t had all his chances to fool around, to be young and stupid and free. He wondered whether Freddie would’ve been so scared of him if he’d had the same chances. “I’m glad you didn’t marry her.” He said eventually.

“I must marry somebody.” He shrugged and stood up, brushing off his jeans. “My mother wants so.”

“Marry me.” Jim grinned, holding out a hand for him as they continued to walk. “I’ll look after you.”

Freddie laughed as though he was joking. “We cannot marry.”

“I could give you a ring.” Jim persisted, and Freddie’s eyebrow arched.

“You know me for six days.” He pointed out.

“I mean-” Jim stammered, blushing himself now. “All in good time.”

“Of course.” Freddie humoured him with a chuckle and grabbed his hand, sudden and excited. “I have an idea. Come to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies I haven't uploaded much this week - I've been working late every night since Saturday and I have been 😴


	7. Silk Sheets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting! V v explicit - watch out!

His skin was a milky gold, amber, burning brightly amongst white silk; Jim knelt over him, focusing in on his face, those sinfully bitten lips, freckles dusted over the graceful curve of his nose. The shots were unlike anything he’d ever taken before, ethereal, delicate, dainty, elegant; he usually shot sex, teasing and coy glances, rather than beauty. These photos were almost too private to give to Vogue, a documentation of those stolen moments that they had together, seconds that they had away from the rest of the world, prying eyes, too quizzical, questioning any light touch or whispered word. 

“You should see yourself.” Jim whispered, leaning forward and brushing his thumb ever-so-gently over Freddie’s lower lip. “I can’t wait to show you these.”

“Front cover?” Freddie stretched out beneath the sheets and smiled up at his lover, secret, clandestine, covert, surreptitious. 

“They’ve never had anything like this before. Nothing so- so innocent.” He pecked his lips gently.

“Innocent?” Freddie echoed. “I am not innocent.” He chuckled.

“You sell innocence. I think that’s what people love about you.” Jim captured his lips again, grinning when Freddie chased the kiss. “You’re like everyone’s perfect son. You’re the guy that every mother wants her daughter to bring home for dinner.”

Freddie’s cheeks pinkened and he leaned up to kiss him again. “You- you please me.” He said shyly. 

Jim winked at him, sitting back next to him. “I could.” He joked, laughing at Freddie’s look of bewilderment. “It’s a sex joke.”

He bit his lip as his cheeks turned from pink to scarlet. “Would you- do you-” He stammered.

“I mean-” Jim found himself blushing, and he cursed himself; he was never shy about sex, not with anyone, and now he was blushing like a teenager. “I’ve never done- done it, you know, with a man before.”

“I have never- never done it.” Freddie echoed, looking away shyly.

“With another guy?” He asked.

“At all.” He whispered, and Jim’s eyes widened.

“You’ve never had sex?” Jim blurted out.

“I- I-” He bit his lip. “I have had not a girlfriend.”

“I guess we’re as naive as each other.” Jim smiled, a little shy, and leaned in to kiss him again.

Freddie caught his shoulder and pulled away a little, confused and excited and nervous and secretly oh-so-thrilled. “Are we- are we-”

“Do you want to?” He whispered, laying next to him. 

Freddie sighed happily, letting himself melt into Jim’s touch as one hand skimmed the taut muscles of his chest. “Yes.”

“Now?” Jim grinned, getting a little more bold with his touches under Freddie’s shirt. He kissed him again, grinning as he gasped against his lips when Jim thumbed his nipple.

“Now.” Freddie agreed, sitting up a little as Jim straddled his hips. “I do not know what I must do.” He smiled shyly.

“Have you ever done- anything?” Jim asked between kisses. “With your fingers, or..?”

Freddie’s cheeks turned scarlet and he rested his hands unsurely on Jim’s hips as Jim kissed his jawline. “Yes.” He murmured softly.

“Did you like it?” He asked with a little grin. 

He tilted his head back, biting his lip hard. “Yes.” He repeated.

“Do you want to do it like that?” He pulled back and cupped Freddie’s cheek, thumbing the butter-soft-smooth skin there. 

Freddie nodded, almost a little too excited, and Jim grinned. He’d been worried that Freddie might want to be on top, and he was a little afraid of bottoming, of losing all his control over his body, so unlike everything he’d experienced - but that smile comforted all his concerns. “I’m going to make you feel good.” Jim said decisively, kissing both of his cheeks again. “Better than you have before.”

Freddie glowed with excitement and leaned up to kiss Jim again, pulling him down on top of him. He melted into his arms, into that same soft-sweet-peppermint taste that was so beautiful and so familiar; his fears of being in control, of being with a woman who expected him to know exactly how to use his hands, of not pleasing somebody or not knowing how to do something, seemed to disappear. He trusted Jim to look after him, to take control, to know what to do.

He had a sudden burst of confidence and slipped his hands under Jim’s t-shirt, pulling it off over his head; he laughed a little when Jim pushed him back down on the bed and pulled off his shirt in turn.

“God, look at you.” Jim whispered, kissing him softly, slowly, lovingly again. “You’re beautiful.”

Freddie grinned and wrapped his arms around Jim’s neck, pulling him back down again; he shivered when their bare skin touched. Jim swept his hand back over Freddie’s chest, stopping to pinch at his nipple, and he grinned when Freddie moaned and bucked his hips involuntarily. “That feel good?” Jim whispered.

“So good.” Freddie murmured, kissing him again. He got lost in the rhythm of their lips together, skin pressed against skin, so much so that he almost forgot what they were doing, what he’d agreed to; he broke away quickly when Jim’s hands found their way to his belt.

Jim sensed his change and pulled back. “Are you sure?” He asked.

“Yes.” He said quickly, nodding and smiling shyly. “I- I would like- gentle.”

“I can do gentle.” Jim smiled and carefully undid his belt, popping open the button of his jeans. “Kick them off, darling.”

Freddie did as he was told, the blush rising high in his cheeks again as Jim’s fingers traced his scanty little thong; he’d never before felt embarrassed in his body, but now he felt as though he was being exposed for the first time. No one had ever touched him like that before. “You.” He murmured, going for Jim’s belt and then smiling when Jim stood up to take them off. 

“These?” He asked teasingly, looping his thumbs in the waistband of his boxers. 

Freddie propped himself up on his elbows, biting his lip shyly as he nodded and watched him. He was so proud in his body, his sexuality, so unashamed; Freddie couldn’t believe his confidence as he stood there, fully naked. 

Freddie had seen plenty of men naked in his life - he’d been sharing dressing rooms for four years, and it was the nature of the job that you got caught or caught somebody else at an awkward moment - but he still blushed scarlet at the sight of Jim; he was hard, and he was fucking _hung,_ and Freddie wasn’t sure how the hell he was ever going to take that.

He knew, sure as hell, he wasn’t about to back down at the challenge. 

“Come-” He reached his arms out for Jim, pulling him in again; his hands skimmed his chest, his shoulders, his hips, before one hand, gentle and clumsy, closed around his cock.

Jim’s head tilted back as sparks shot up his spine - the drag of Freddie’s palm was a little dry, his hand inexperienced, but the palm was soft and he had a wicked way of tightening his hand on the upstroke that Jim figured came with years of practicing on himself. “Fuck-” He gasped as Freddie’s mouth became a little braver, encouraged by Jim’s reaction; he kissed his neck, nipping the skin occasionally as Jim got into a rhythm, thrusting into his hand.

There was something wicked about watching him in the midst of his pleasure, unashamedly staring as he tried thumbing the head, lost in the way that his eyes closed and his mouth fell open-

“Freddie-” His voice was weak as his teeth closed on his lower lip. “This is- this’ll be over very quickly if you keep doing that.”

Freddie let go, though he was flushed with pride that he’d managed to make him go shaky. “What do we do?” He asked shyly.

“You need to get rid of these.” Jim hooked his thumbs in Freddie’s thong, pulling it off more boldly now he was sure Freddie wasn’t so frightened. “Roll onto your front, baby, get comfy.”

He sat up on his knees as Freddie settled on his stomach, head cushioned on his pillow; Jim almost couldn’t believe he was about to do this, that he was really about to fuck this model-

“Shit.” He mumbled, looking through the drawer beside him. There were a few strips of condoms - Naked ones, he was impressed by the luxury - but he knew they weren’t going to get anywhere without lube. “Wait there, baby.”

Freddie watched him curiously as he went into the bathroom, the friction of the sheets against his bare cock feeling so good that he couldn’t help but press into it, grinding into the mattress. Jim came back with a pot and Freddie eyed it suspiciously. “What?” He asked.

“Coconut oil. It should work.” He knelt astride Freddie’s thighs and pressed a row of kisses down his spine, right down to the dip of his tailbone. “Trust me.” He murmured, leaning down to give Freddie’s hole an encouraging lick.

Freddie gasped like it had been punched out of him, his hips straining against the mattress as Jim lapped over him, again and again until he was shaking, almost crying out each time he nudged that spot behind his balls. His legs opened wider and he pushed back a little, before he let Jim push forward one of his legs up toward his chest so he was nearly laying on his side.

“How’s that?” Jim asked, teasingly running his thumb over his saliva-slick hole. “Still sure?”

“Amazing.” Freddie gasped, listening as he unscrewed the lid to the oil. Jim dipped a finger in it, his tongue and his finger meeting as he pressed in a little, just up to the first knuckle.

He was thankful for every time he’d guiltily listened in on the Givenchy boys, swapping and sharing secrets.

It was much like the few times Freddie had tried it; he felt a little full, squeezed tight around him, but he wasn’t sure why people claimed to have enjoyed it so much when it was just dull pressure. Jim lapped over his hole again, and Freddie melted into his tongue, hoping that other hand would touch that spot behind his balls again-

He hadn’t realised he’d relaxed until Jim’s finger pressed in the whole way, and then twisted wickedly.

Freddie cried out, fists clenching in the bedsheets and hips caught between the bedsheets and that finger, rubbing so intensely over that spot, so much so that Freddie thought he was going to drown, he couldn’t fucking breathe-

Jim pulled out to slick up a second finger, grinning to himself. “I bet that feels a whole lot better than your fingers, baby.” He murmured teasingly in his ear, making Freddie shiver. It took him a moment to relax enough to take two, and Jim’s fingers were quick and talented as he went back to that spot.

Freddie moaned, completely lost in it, crying out loud and unashamed as he worked him bluntly, no finesse. He got his knees beneath him and pushed back, almost tearing the sheets with how hard he fisted them, needing to move, needing to rock back, needing to fuck himself so desperately. Jim was almost panting behind him, his cock leaking just from watching the scene, watching Freddie lose his mind on two fingers-

He hadn’t noticed the ways his moans had gotten dangerously higher, higher, gasping and panting with his hair hanging in his face as he cried out and came over the sheets.

Jim reminded himself that it was normal - Freddie was a fucking virgin, and he’d probably never felt like that before - and went to pull his fingers out, but Freddie whimpered and chased them. “More.” He gasped, the aftershocks and sensitivity racing themselves over his body as Jim pushed his fingers back up into his sweet spot.

“You like that?” Jim asked, breathless. “You like being pushed?”

Freddie nodded, whining a little when Jim pulled out his fingers to slick up the third - the stretch of the third wasn’t painful, just a fullness that Freddie had never experienced before. Jim eased off his spot, efficiently scissoring them and spreading them inside him; Freddie’s chest heaved with exertion every time they bumped against his prostate. The image of Freddie, hand around his cock, fucking his fist even when his hand was covered in his come, almost had Jim at the edge himself - he reached down and squeezed the base of his cock tightly, wanting to at least be inside Freddie before he came. 

“I can.” Freddie wriggled his hips desperately. “You, please.”

Jim pulled his fingers out and kissed his spine breathlessly. “On your back, beautiful.” He murmured, reaching for the condoms. “Want me to wear one?”

Freddie shook his head, watching as he slicked up his cock with the same oil, skin prickling with excitement. He wanted to experience it properly, every part of it; his eyes brightened as Jim grabbed his legs and put them on his shoulders, biting his lip and smiling when Jim leaned down to kiss him again.

They kissed for a few moments, and Freddie gasped against his lips as he started to push in; he squeezed his shoulder when the head was in, a silent plea for a moment to breathe.

Jim stopped, hips bunched tight, chest heaving, as though it was a physical effort not to move. “Everything alright?” He asked.

“Gentle.” Freddie murmured again, doing his best to relax around him. It didn’t hurt like he’d anticipated - the oil made everything slick, none of the rough drag of skin on skin that he’d expected - but the fullness was overwhelming; he feared for a moment that he’d lose his mind.

He slowly edged in a few more inches, watching as Freddie’s cheeks reddened and he bit at his lower lip, just knowing that he was being watched. He pulled back and thrust in carefully, just trying, barely halfway in, but he knew the moment he’d caught Freddie’s spot again; he gasped, and his whole body relaxed as though he’d been tranquilised.

He pushed in as deep as he could go and Freddie arched beneath him, the slick-hot-full-pleasure overwhelming him, making him forget how to breathe, how to speak, how to function. Jim groaned at the look on his face, lips slightly parted, and let himself be pulled in by his look; he kissed him messily as they panted together, feeling as Freddie smiled against his lips. “Please.” He whispered.

“Fuck.” Jim laughed into his throat and took one of his hands, squeezing it as he moved his hips slightly.

Freddie smiled, allowing himself to relax back into the pillows, letting himself be guided through his pleasure. He tilted his head back as he slowly built up his pace, moaning softly, his hand tightening in Jim’s, and allowed his eyes to fall shut.

“You’re incredible.” Jim groaned, unable to stop himself from kissing the skin of his neck. “Freddie, baby, oh my God-”

He adored the pet name; he blushed all over with delight. “Darling-” He whispered, smiling at Jim’s answering groan. He wrapped a leg around his waist, the other one already slung over his shoulder, and dug his heels into Jim’s back; he moaned loudly when it made him snap his hips forward. “Oh- please, ah-” He gasped.

“Like that?” Jim grinned, enthralled by the gloss of pleasure over his cheeks. He tweaked his nipple and kissed away his gasp, peppering his face until Freddie was laughing beneath him, and then started to thrust harder, faster, watching each one rock through his body.

“Yes.” Freddie pushed his hips up so he could get a better angle and cried out loudly when he hit his spot, his cock throbbing against his stomach. “Darling, darling, please-”

He grabbed Freddie’s thigh to hold him at the right angle and thrust harder into his prostate, groaning when Freddie clenched tight around him. Freddie whined and pushed back into his thrusts, feeling as though he was burning, he was a supernova, he couldn’t help the gasps and whines that left his lips-

Jim wrapped a hand around his cock and Freddie whimpered with pleasure, his nails digging into Jim’s shoulders as he thrust his hips up into his hand and then down onto his cock; he panted for breath, his skin shining with sweat, and Jim thought he was beautiful, effervescent, incandescent, fluorescent.

“Oh my God-” Freddie threw his head back and clung on desperately. “Jim, Jim, Jim-” He chanted, overwhelmed, so close- his hands were shaking, his back was trapped in an arch, his chest was heaving, he was clenched so tight around Jim’s cock-

“Come on, baby.” Jim was addicted to the sight of him. “Come on baby, let go for me, sweetheart-”

Freddie cried out as he came over Jim’s hand, his face the picture of pleasure as he allowed his body to relax back into the sheets. He interlaced his fingers with Jim’s, moaning when he picked up his speed again, aftershocks dancing under his skin; Jim gasped, moaning low and harsh at the back of his throat as he came inside him.

Freddie’s fingers petted through Jim’s hair as he panted against his throat, soft and gentle, soothing in a way that Jim had never experienced before. Freddie met his lips in a lazy kiss, trailing his fingers up and down Jim’s back, smiling when Jim kissed him deeper, softer, slower.

* * *

For the first time, his camera stayed where it was, discarded on a side table; he was absorbed by this, this indulgence - he was so absorbed in him, his body, his beauty, that he forgot about perfection and art altogether. Jim rested his forehead against Freddie’s and captured his lips once again, feeling the racing of his pulse beneath his fingers; he was leaned over him, chest to chest, as close as he could possibly be. “Baby…” Jim whispered, his eyes closing heavily as he kissed him again. 

“I love you.” Freddie murmured, wrapping an arm around his neck and smiling as though giddy. 

Jim cupped his cheek, almost feeling as though he could’ve cried; he’d never heard those words with such honesty before, such conviction, such adoration. “Do you mean that?” He asked. “It’s alright if you don’t, I mean, I know you don’t know me especially well-”

“I love you.” Freddie smiled, his heart feeling so warm at the smile that spread across Jim’s face. “I love you.”

Jim went silent for a moment, swallowed a lump in his throat, and then kissed Freddie again. “I love you too.” He whispered. “I didn’t know you felt like that- about me.”

“I am- what is the word?” He bit his lip shyly. “Both people. I love both people.”

“Men and women?” He asked.

“Yes.” Freddie blushed. “But it is- it is wrong, no?”

“It depends who you ask.” He said honestly. “Some religions say it’s wrong. Some people think it’s- it’s unnatural, like men having sex with animals or something.”

Freddie nodded and reached for his hand, taking it and squeezing. “And you think?”

“I wish I wasn’t like this.” He admitted honestly. “I think- I think life would be easier, if I could just like women. But I think I’m happier with you than I was with them. I guess it’s got to be okay if it makes me happy, right?”

“I think that is good idea.” Freddie smiled when Jim lay back down next to him and held out an arm for him. He lay against his chest, curled in the crook of his arm, and smiled when Jim started to play with his hair. He’d always been on the other end of this, always been the one with somebody else cuddled to him, and it felt good to be so protected, warmed and calmed against someone else.

Jim watched his eyes flutter, heavy with tiredness, and kissed his forehead instinctively. His mind was spinning, out of control like a Catherine wheel, so overwhelmed at the beauty of the Versace model in his arms, the boy he’d wanted all along, the boy, _the boy-_

He knew their time together had only just begun.

* * *

“These are beautiful.” Catherine flicked through the photos that Jim had presented, settling on one of the ones of Freddie amongst silk sheets, soft, gentle, vulnerable. “But they’re not Fashion Week.”

“But they are.” Jim argued, leaning forward. “He’s Versace. He was the highest paid model at the whole of Fashion Week.”

“I don’t even know his name.” She arched an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“Freddie Bulsara. I know.” He nodded.

“It’s not a very- professional name, is it? He’ll need to change it if he’s going to go on the cover.” She lit a cigarette and thought for a moment. “Where are these taken?”

“One of the Versace apartments in Manhattan. He agreed to do a shoot, but I thought we could do something a bit different. We’ve had so many catwalk photos recently.” He pointed out.

“No, I like it.” She agreed. “It’s- it’s something different. It’s fresh, it’s sweet, he looks- he almost looks vulnerable, in a way. But those freckles have to go.” She held the photo up. “You’ll need to blur the photo. Can you pale his lips?”

Jim frowned. “I don’t want to edit it.”

She arched an eyebrow. “He should’ve had makeup done before this photo, Jim, you know that’s how this works. I don’t do blemishes on the cover.”

“They’re not blemishes. That’s his face.” He crossed his arms.

She looked up exasperatedly. “In case you forgot, Hutton, you taking control of photos with this model nearly lost you your fucking contract.” She replied and leaned back in her chair, flicking ash contemptuously over the photos she’d rejected. “Do you want the cover?”

Jim sighed. “You know I want the cover.”

“No freckles, and edit the lips.” She crossed her arms.

“Can I at least talk to him before I edit the photos?” He asked. “Check it’s alright with him?”

“You’ve got until midday tomorrow.” She told him. “Talk to him, get the photo done, and have it on my desk.”


	8. Fears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They break through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filler chapter - sorry!

Jim yawned as he stumbled down to the front door, wondering why the hell someone was knocking on at three o’clock in the morning when he had to be awake at seven the next morning for a meeting with Cosmopolitan. He’d been talking to Freddie practically the whole afternoon, up until he’d abruptly cut him off at around ten o’clock his time; he’d been feeling a little bereft for the rest of the evening. He’d gone to bed early - he didn’t know what had gotten into him, going to bed early and waking up early - but that didn’t assuage his annoyance, having been woken up.

He walked down the path and unlocked the gate, rubbing his eyes blearily. “What the hell?”

“Surprise!” Freddie grinned, proud of how confident the word sounded; he’d been taught it by a woman sat next to him on his flight from Delhi.

“Oh my God!” Jim wrapped his arms around Freddie and hugged him close. “Baby, I can’t believe you’re here!”

Freddie threw his arms around Jim’s neck and stood on his toes to kiss him. “I- I- want to help.” He nodded. “Vogue.”

“I don’t know if it’ll help, darling.” Jim said gently. “She was certain, edit or it’s not going on the front cover.”

“I do not want an edit.” Freddie said, sounding determined. “Edit, or no.”

Jim pressed another sweet kiss to his lips and smiled. “It’s worth a shot, I suppose.” He acquiesced. “See if she’ll point out those things to your face.”

“My lips- they are mine.” He said defiantly. “She- she cannot not like them.” Freddie lifted his hand to his own cheek, feeling the warmth of them, the health in his face. He loved his skin, his freckles, his body; he was confident in himself, and he wouldn’t let himself be beaten down. “Or she cannot have the photo.”

“I love them.” Jim took his head and traced his knuckles over Freddie’s skin. “I think you’re beautiful.”

Freddie smiled. “Do you know a hotel? Close?” He asked. “I am- what is the word? Frozen.” He laughed.

“Are you serious? I’m not letting you stay anywhere other than here.” Jim wound an arm around his waist and led him indoors. “Why should you fork out for a hotel in Kensington when I’ve got a lovely warm bed that’s big enough for two?”

“Perfect.” Freddie smiled; he was pleased that his plan had worked perfectly. He followed Jim up the stairs and flopped down on his bed, laughing as he was immediately pounced on by a cat. “Kitten!”

“This is Oscar.” Jim lay beside him, stroking the cat idly. “He likes to share the bed. He sleeps by my feet, as long as that’s okay with you.”

“Yes.” Freddie grinned, cuddling the cat. “I love cats.”

Jim yawned and rested his head back on his pillow. “If you need some pajamas, they’re in the drawer over there.”

Freddie had brought pajamas, but he immediately took Jim’s offer and jumped up, looking through the drawer. He found a velvety sweatshirt and pulled off his clothes unashamedly, laying down next to Jim. “Do you want..?” Jim offered an arm.

Freddie immediately took his offer and snuggled up against his chest, smiling happily. “Love you.” He murmured.

“I love you too.” Jim chuckled, almost unable to believe that in the space of ten minutes, Freddie had appeared at his door and was now comfortably curled up in his bed. “It’s nice to have you here.”

“It has been- what? A week?” Freddie giggled. “I have missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too.” Jim kissed his forehead and smiled. “Very much.”

* * *

“I thought you might be interested in seeing the face yourself.” Jim leaned back in his chair, cigarette perched between his fingers. He’d brought back the same photo, unedited and raw, and he was refusing to change it. “You know, so you can really understand what’s going on behind the photo.”

“What?” Catheryne asked, brow furrowing. “You know I don’t-”

“Freddie!” Jim called idly, taking a drag on his cigarette. “Catheryne wants to see you!”

Freddie had played up to the criticisms of his photo; he had bitten his lips redder, he’d dotted more freckles on his cheeks with an old eyeliner pencil, he seemed to scream innocence and youth, comfort, sweetness, idyllic softness. He came into the room, sweet and shy, and sat beside Jim, careful to keep enough distance between them. “Hello.” He said softly.

“Why don’t you tell Freddie what you thought of the photo?” Jim asked, deliberately provocative. 

Freddie mustered his best look of innocence suspense, hope. She couldn’t beat down somebody like that. “We loved it.” She told him. “We think it’s- it’s very different to what we used to have, but we like that.”

The look that she shot Jim undermined her words, but he just smirked, pretending not to notice. “They’re thinking about using it for the front cover.” He told him, as if Freddie didn’t already know.

Freddie gasped. “Me?” He asked, looking at her. “I am- I am-” He played up his shyness, grinning, almost child-like. “I am thrilled!”

“Yes, darling, you.” She smiled, endeared by his excitement. “Jim’s photo of you was lovely. We were just thinking- obviously your freckles are- they’re very pronounced, you know, and we were wondering if we should blur them out a little.”

Freddie looked so upset at the idea that she immediately backtracked. “Only with your consent, of course, we wouldn’t want to do wrong by you.”

“I would not like that.” He said quietly, soft and sad. “They are- they are me, they are mine.”

“Okay.” She agreed, looking again at the photo and back at Freddie. “We’ll take it. Front cover.”

“Thank you!” Freddie jumped up and hugged her, not caring how unprofessional he was being. 

“It’s alright.” She chuckled, hugging him back. “It’s nice to meet you, darling.”

* * *

“So.” Roger sat down next to Freddie, who was sat on a sofa in the Chanel house; he arched a playful eyebrow at Freddie’s look of shock. “I haven’t seen you in forever. Where were you last London?”

“I- I was casting.” Freddie lied. “For New York.”

“No shit!” He said excitedly. “Who did you walk for?”

“Versace.” Freddie told him, fluffing up with pride when Roger’s jaw dropped. “They give me a- a-” He frowned. “The word is  _ apearetman.” _

“Apartment?” He asked. “Really?”

“In Manhattan.” Freddie said proudly. “I- I am Vogue.”

Roger started to smirk. “That’s where the rumours came from.”

“Rumours?” Freddie asked. “What is that?”

“Stories. People- people were talking about you, they said you broke up with Mary and no one expected it.” He couldn’t hide his grin. “Someone said you had a thing for the photographer.”

Freddie’s cheeks scorched scarlet. “No!” He said quickly. “I have- I have other offer.”

“Not true at all?” Roger teased. “Half the guys would fuck him if he swung that way. You’re hardly the straightest out of all of us.”

Freddie bit his lip. “I do not- I am not for men.” He lied, knowing he looked so guilty. Just the mention of fucking had his memories going back a few nights ago, the memories of their night together in the back of his mind, making his skin prickle with heat.

“I don’t believe you.” Roger smirked. “You’re too good looking to be straight.”

“I am not!” He squealed, standing up. He didn’t want anybody overhearing them, anybody suspecting anything, not when his career was just getting off the ground. 

“Hey, chill, I’m only teasing you.” Roger held his hands out in surrender. “You know, I’m not straight. I don’t think half the guys are.”

“No?” Freddie asked, suddenly curious. Everyone he knew was furiously straight, would never dream of being otherwise; he lived in a world where guys kissed girls, and girls were the centre of everyone’s attention, always.

“I’ve got a boyfriend.” He lowered his voice. “But we both, you know- we fuck a couple of girls just to keep it low. So no one gets suspicious. I think he’ll get married before long.”

“I-” Freddie sat down beside him and lowered his voice so it was barely a whisper. “I had sex. With- with Jim.” He murmured.

“I knew it!” He said triumphantly, laughing when Freddie frantically shushed him. “It’s fucking great, isn’t it?”

Freddie nodded shyly and smiled. “He is wonderful.” He whispered. 

“Just don’t tell too many people about it. Especially not Vogue.” Roger said seriously. “They’ll fire him immediately, and they’ll do their best to ruin you. They can put up with him fucking the women, but they won’t put up with him fucking the men. If he ends up giving someone AIDS or something, they’ll have a lawsuit on their hands.”

Freddie hadn’t thought of that; a look of horror crossed his face. “AIDS?”

“He could give it to the women, too, but it’s easier to just call them whores and move on.” Roger rolled his eyes. 

“Does he?” Freddie asked worriedly. 

“I haven’t heard of it. It’s just- it’s at the forefront of everything that they do. That’s why they don’t cast gay models, it’s just asking for death, and that’s a bad rep. They can’t have massive swathes of their models wasting away.” He shrugged. “And so we have to keep it really fucking quiet, or we’re out of a job.”

Freddie looked down at his body, suddenly worried that something was going horribly wrong inside him. “How do you know?”

“Some people get blood tests. It makes me feel all- all wrong.” He shivered. “I just hope that everything’s fine.” He chuckled.

“That is- bad.” Freddie said eventually. “You- be careful.”

Roger shrugged and lit a cigarette. “If you don’t know, you don’t worry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set in the early/mid-eighties - Roger is definitely not a demon here, but this was sadly a mindset in some people!


	9. Fridays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie couldn't not listen in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super lazy filler chapter - sorry!

“What are you doing?” Jim asked, watching as Freddie leaned into the mirror, slicking his lips redder. He was looking a little less vulnerable, a little more put together, more confident even as he stood in Jim’s bathroom in his underwear; his skin was clear and smooth, clean, freshly shaven from his ankles, his legs, his chest, right the way up to his chin and cheeks. Jim wrapped a warm arm around his waist, looking a little wounded when Freddie slapped his hands away quickly.

“Not wool!” He said, gesturing to the sweater that Jim was wearing. “My skin, it will itch.”

Jim laughed a little and pulled his jumper off, wrapping his arms back around Freddie and pressing kisses to both of his cheeks. “What’s got you so conscious?”

“Hmm?” Freddie asked idly, plucking a hair from his eyebrow and looking over himself critically.

“This isn’t your usual morning routine.” Jim said. “What’s got you so focused?”

“I am in London.” Freddie replied, as though it were obvious. “You are doing Vogue castings, no?”

Freddie was incredibly ambitious, Jim had learned; not a single word about any opportunity passed him up. He’d had a few brief words with Catheryne about shooting some of the casting photos that morning, standard castings instead of the usual elite ones, something a little different - he hadn’t realised that Freddie had overheard them. “Have you got an invitation?”

“I do not care.” Freddie waved his hand dismissively. “I am pretty, that will do.”

Jim arched an eyebrow, but he didn’t argue. “It’ll be awfully boring.”

Freddie shrugged. “It is natural.” He replied, twisting and turning in the mirror before he turned to Jim. “How am I?”

“You know I think you’re beautiful.” Jim grinned. 

“The lips?” Freddie asked, wielding a tube in his hand. It was a sheer lipstick, Jim could see, tinted red; he was playing up to those things that made him different, made him look beautiful. He didn’t try to be who he wasn’t; he didn’t powder himself whiter, try to sell himself as all the others did - he celebrated who he was.

“More.” Jim said definitely. Freddie smiled and added a little more colour, looking youthful and bright. “Perfect.” Jim kissed his cheek.

Freddie turned around and wound his arms around Jim’s neck, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips. “How many people today?”

“I think the last number I read was two hundred and seventeen.” Jim was exhausted just thinking about it, about how many of the same, unimaginative photos he would have to take.

“Then I am two hundred eighteen.” Freddie grinned, kissing him again.

* * *

Freddie was buzzing with excitement, and Jim could feel his energy even when they were nowhere near each other; Freddie was hopping from foot to foot, casting a critical eyebrow over anybody who chose to pose in a way that was a little too conventional, a little too vanilla, a little too dull. Even though the room was hot, and Jim had watched pale pallors pinken despite jackets removed and hair let down from tight braids, Freddie was entirely unfazed; he sat on the floor at the back of the room, flicking the pages of an old Vogue magazine and occasionally asking the boy next to him what this or that word meant. 

Jim watched, a little while later, as Freddie approached the casting director and threw him a wink. He handed over a little card - Jim could only assume it was a business card, hand-drawn with the pens that he’d stolen from his lover - and ran up onto the runway with a little flourish. He sent his lover a secret smile, hidden under the guise of friendliness, and Jim adjusted the white balance of his camera so that he wouldn’t completely blow out the honey-caramel of his skin against his white t-shirt-

“Do you wear heels?” The director asked loudly, and Freddie looked up quickly.

“Heels?” Freddie asked dumbly.

“Could you do a runway in heels?” He asked again. “I’ve seen you on the catwalk, I know what you’re like usually.”

“I have learned in stilettos.” Freddie smiled shyly as the director threw him a pair of heels. “You would like?”

“I’m just wanting to spice things up a little.” He agreed, starting to smile when Freddie sat on the floor and pulled them on without questioning. He stood up, forever confident, and turned playfully on one foot before he ran back up to the head of the catwalk. “Hutton?” He asked when he caught Jim staring.

He floundered for a second and pretended to adjust his settings. “I’m ready, go ahead.”

Freddie looked so playful and beautiful as he stepped out, careful and measured and yet not restrained; his legs came into sharp relief with each step, and he showed over the gorgeous curve of his back, the taper of his shoulders, as he lifted his arms above his head. His smile glowed gold, effulgent, irresistible, and Jim couldn’t resist the joy on his face as he stopped for a photo, immediately knowing his angles.

The director watched for a few moments and leaned back in his chair, grinning to himself. “What are you doing on the fourth and fifth of November?”

Freddie’s cheeks pinkened and he begun to smile. “I do not know.” He replied, almost sounding a little shy.

“How would you like to walk at the Vogue Festival?” He asked, delighting in the sudden youth and innocence that seemed to burst from the seams of his experience. “Heels and all?”

“Thank you!” Freddie wanted to hug somebody, anybody, his boyfriend who looked delighted or the man who was about to introduce him into one of the most niche circles in the modelling industry, or maybe his mother or his father or his sister - he had always known that something good had to come out of London.

“It is no problem.” He looked around at Jim and smirked. “I thought I might see you today. I understand that you are very good friends.” He said knowingly.

“We’ve known each other a few weeks.” Jim justified them both quickly, glancing up at Freddie with anxiety flooding his features. “Freddie had to come over last minute, and so I offered him a spare room.”

“Oh, you’ve got plenty of those to spare.” He nodded with a chuckle. “No, I’m glad you’re passing on the word to models I want to see. We all need friends in high places.”

“He’s gotten everywhere so far without me.” Jim said, a little shy.

“That’s not quite true.” He pointed out as Freddie sat down on the front of the catwalk. “You’re the New York cover star, aren’t you? That photo was Jim.”

“I am.” Freddie smiled. “But I- I cannot stand him then. I thought he to be awful.”

“Recently reconciled, then?” He asked. “Freddie, what are your hobbies? Things you like doing?”

“Hobbies?” Freddie echoed, cocking his head to the side. “It is- it is _reqs rewa akh,_ but I do not know the word.” He bit his lip. “It is dancing, but it is ice.”

“Figure skating?” Jim suggested; he was getting good at deciphering explanations and pidgin English the more he listened, the more he took the time to listen. 

“Jim, word of advice.” He grinned, propping his feet up on the desk. “It’s not a good first date if it makes you look like a fool.”

* * *

He squealed loudly as Freddie pounced on him, knees either side of his hips; Freddie was laughing as he wielded a pair of tweezers in his hand, looking radiant as he knelt astride his boyfriend. His hair caught the light at all the right angles as a lazy curl fell over his forehead, the sleepy sunlight biting at the highs of his cheekbones and the curve of his nose - Jim felt himself momentarily relax as he watched it, before Freddie’s traitorous fingers seized on the eyebrow hair that had offended him so badly.

“Ouch!” He squealed, smacking Freddie’s hands away. “That’s near my eye!”

“Softie!” Freddie laughed. “You- you need- what is the term?” He asked curiously.

“If you say TLC, I’ll kick your ass.” Jim grumbled, catching his wrist when Freddie lifted his hand again. 

“TLC!” Freddie nodded with delight. “Kick me, baby.”

A dark look flashed across Jim’s eyes and he smirked. “Gladly.”

END OF PART ONE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Freddie is serving JVN realness here


	10. Morning Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A slower time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S HERE I said it was coming and I never lie even if I am slow

PART TWO

The room was quiet around them, hugging them tight together, inseparable, one. They weren’t just one at the lips, but points between clutching fingers and shirts, grabbing hands and hips, always wanting more, needing more, forbidden fruit only the sweeter. The raspberry lip gloss made his head spin, tasting saccharine and melting into the taste of strawberries and whipped cream that he’d indulged in on the set; the rough drag of stubble across baby-soft skin sent him bursting, a supernova of noise and colour and laughter-

He was explosive, and Jim held the match to the ignition.

He never said no, never said no to Louboutins or walking in stilettos, tottering precariously in shoes three sizes too big for him; he never said no to champagne on comps or cocaine snorted precariously off the corner of some casting directors platinum AmEx. He dragged Jim alongside, or maybe Jim was the one dragging him further and further into the haze of debauchery and late nights- one bought and they crammed together, inseparable, one, into a cubicle in the men’s, laughing hysterically as white powder dusted top lips and shirt collars, always the money in a back pocket for more.

Once it had been demure, and now it was fuelled on its own passion, a monster released to the daylight. Once it had been tentative kisses to the corner of mouths, and now it was ties gripped hard in a fist, hair clenched between fingers, talented hands down the front of suit trousers.

Other times, it was soft and slow; it was lazy eyelashes against collarbones, it was never sitting apart in the house, it was two paracetamol with a mug of Earl Grey and a gentle kiss to an aching forehead. No matter how far they were at work, no matter how they scowled at one another, made snide remarks, broken English criticising the cut of his jeans, confident English mocking a man who could barely be said to be so- a man so feminine one had to check his passport to see if it was really true.

Oh, but Jim adored that in the bed next to him.

If he’d been struggling before, enjoying smooth skin, but too soft; he’d enjoyed the soft curls of freshly washed hair and dark eyelashes, the slick of lip gloss against his mouth, but never the body beneath it - this was the antidote.

One finger traced a sharp jawline, a strong cheekbone, a high brow bone. One finger traced lips still stained with last night’s gloss and nursing a cut from a glass that seemed to smash between his very fingers; the stubble on his cheeks that would quickly be shaved with five minutes and a straight razor; the soft eyelids that protected those eyes he loved so dearly.

God, he was definitely hungover.

Jim groaned as he pulled himself a little upright, feeling blindly for the box of paracetamol in his bedside drawer and cursing when he stuck his fingers in the mess from leaving the lube bottle uncapped. He downed two tablets dry, shaking his hand violently to dislodge the one stuck in his throat, and collapsed back into the bed again, winding his arms around the warmth of his boyfriend beside him. He lazily reminded himself to maybe have sex when he’d remember it once, when he could treasure him as he had those first few nights, the slow pace of life that they’d lost when the season had kicked into overdrive and Freddie had been catapulted to the front pages of Vogue.

The steady rise and fall of Freddie’s chest - the man slept like the dead, he’d learned, sleeping on anything and everything that would take him, people, chairs, make-up benches, but he was much harder to wake up again, taking gentle persuasion, tea, and at least three cigarettes - was interrupted, the break in the rhythm dragging him awake again. He breathed in deeply, let out a long breath, and rolled over; though only half awake, he clutched tight to his boyfriend as though criticising him for even thinking of leaving him asleep, alone.

Jim let out a little laugh and grabbed his pillow, giving it to Freddie to cuddle, but gentle fingers grew ever more insistent. “Stay.” He mumbled, eyes never opening.

“Freddie, baby-” He said gently, leaning down to kiss his head. “Two secs, I promise.”

“No.” Unforgiving fingers started to grab at whatever they could, yesterday’s shirt and the waistband of a pair of ruined boxers.

“Freddie!” Jim unbuttoned the shirt, trying to free himself, but fingers seized on skin. “Ouch!”

“No!” He muttered more insistently, succeeding in pulling him back into the bed. 

“I gotta piss, love.” Jim laughed when Freddie immediately let go. “You don’t want me to wet the bed.”

“You- you should say.” He murmured sleepily, heavy eyes already inching closed again. He had no care for the time of day, not when it was his day off; it was Sunday, his Sabbath, and he sure as hell wasn’t getting out of bed before mid-afternoon.

His nose was sore, his throat was dry, and he was covered in his own sweat, but it was nothing that a bubble bath wouldn’t cleanse him of. He would eventually strip the bed, clean the sheets, change the towels and scrub down the bathroom - he could only imagine the state of it - but he needed to be functional before then, and he wasn’t about to be functional before his tea.

He heard the soft click of the kettle on the other side of the room, Jim’s bright idea to wake him up more easily, and he cracked one eye open begrudgingly.

“There he is!” Jim teased, sitting back down on the bed and stroking his hair gently. “Good afternoon, Sleeping Beauty.”

Freddie groaned and shut his eye again, a very tired hand coming up to rub his face. “I am-” He yawned and pulled the other pillow on top of his head. “What is it you say? Fucking knackered.”

“Nothing Earl Grey won’t fix for you, doll.” Jim swatted his ass through the blankets and laughed when Freddie threw the pillow at him. “Hey, touchy!”

Freddie couldn’t hide his own smile and pulled himself up to sitting, the blankets pooling around his waist. “I am cold.” He announced, rubbing a hand over his bare arms.

“Try putting some clothes on.” Jim arched an eyebrow as he made them tea. “Then again, I’m not sure you have any clean. You’re a terrible housewife.”

“It is your house.” Freddie quipped back, taking his tea with grabby hands. “You can wash also.”

“What’s the point in having a boyfriend if I have to do my own laundry?” Jim smirked as he climbed back into bed, winding an arm around Freddie. “I fell in love with you for a reason.”

Freddie wanted to make some comment about stereotypes, maybe, about lipstick not equating to housewifery, but the mere mention of _falling in love_ still brought colour to his cheeks. “I love you.” He replied instead, slurring it in the early-morning-and-still-a-little-drunk style that Jim knew too well, but full of earnest, sober emotion.

“I love you too.” Jim kissed his head. “My house is an absolute state. We need to clean it today.”

“It is the off day for me.” Freddie whined, sleepy resting his head on his knees.

“And you’ve got a Vogue shoot tomorrow where you need to look like you haven’t been coked up all weekend, and that starts with sleeping in a bed where you’re not getting lube in your hair every time you roll over and rocking up in clean clothes.” Jim pointed out. “There’s a line between crackhead and recreation.”

“And I- I-” He thought fiercely for a second, trying to remember all the new words he’d been learning, and he seized one with both hands. “I hug it, darling!”

“You were so fucking innocent when I first met you.” Jim took his mug off him, discarding it on the bedside table, and pushed him down on the bed to sit astride his hips. “When I had you in that bed in Manhattan and you came about three minutes in.”

Freddie’s cheeks coloured defiantly. “I am innocent.” He replied.

“I’m pretty sure you’ve snorted coke off someone’s cock, Freddie.” He smirked. “There’s a time and a place for recreation, and it ain’t when you’ve got your biggest shoot at nine in the morning on a Monday.”

Freddie leaned up to kiss him, though it had none of the fire that he’d been anticipating; he was softer, more gentle, and it took Jim by surprise. He cupped his lover’s cheek and kissed back softly, eliciting the softest sigh; when he pulled back, Freddie’s eyelids were heavy again.

“You know-” He pecked his lips again when Freddie looked positively bereft. “Sometimes I sit at work and the director’s talking to you or whatever, and you get this look on your face, and you’re all concentrated and focused, and I’ve never been able to kiss you when you look like that. I have to sit on my hands to remind myself that I’m not allowed to get up.”

Freddie pulled him down for another kiss, smiling softly. “We should- should apprise them.”

Jim pulled back and arched an eyebrow. “Are you crazy? That’d be the end of both of our careers. You can say goodbye to the shoes and the parties, I’ll say goodbye to ever getting one of my photos in a magazine ever again.”

“Surely-” Freddie steeled himself to sound as confident as possible. “Surely it better be that we tell.” He shook his head when he realised the words sounded jumbled and confused. “Better to tell. Worse to find out.”

“We can keep it a secret, darling. Just keep it a secret until you’re too famous to touch and nobody tries to fire you just because you prefer cock.” Jim shrugged.

“You-” Freddie pressed a softer, more hesitant kiss to his lips. “I prefer you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't come at me for the depiction of cocaine use - it's not going to be a big feature in this story and I am not attempting to glamorise it, but it is genuinely a huge thing in modelling circles and in rich London circles! The boys weren't saints irl and definitely did it at points in their lives, and it would be seen at that time as par for the course in the up-and-coming rise of a new model.
> 
> That is all :)

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoyed it? Leave all the comments! I hope you're enjoying this new take on new to England!Freddie - this was so highly requested!


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